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internal rhyme – mic check lyrics

[verse 1]
i try to progressively learn to make the best of my turn
upon this mic, because that light will make your recipe burn
so i stay down to the earth like i’m a freshly-grown turnip
and i get turned up like the bottom of a bottle of syrup
first, your only opposition should be positioned to opt out
you got no shot, like iguodala in the lockout
i drop style to make your brain quickly crumble to acid mix
half of this sh-t ain’t even a task, it’s more an abacus
of technique, when i bless beats, you’d think it’s magic
but it’s all about the years i spent and tactics for my practicing
which doesn’t come naturally to white and jewish rappers, see
so now with every track i gets y’all buried like a daiquiri
uh, they try to tell me, “jay, you’d probably be best
if you cut out all the curses, spoke on good, and skipped the rest”
and though i do appreciate advice from fam and friends
you got me f-cked if you think you know how i should self-express
yes, i’m never looking for the press
not because i can’t obtain it, just because i’d hate the stress
and i still spit the darts that come shooting from the dark
and then get locked around your heart, call that cardiac arrest
i didn’t choose the game, i just saw the light
figured, “hmm, my confidence could reach the tallest heights
if i could spit raw, edit ’til it’s altered right
and then deliver out the science like i’m walter white”
plus i can talk that lit like i was walter whit–
man, you want a rapper with no faulty script
and could make these other rappers nauseous sick
well then, put that together and i’m all that sh-t

[bridge]
hold up, hold up, hold up
yo sa-je
let me get a mic check

[verse 2]
they call me internal, and i used to go by “jay”
but call me “dante” when i throw on this inferno
you can’t step to me or even try to bring that bullsh-t
of a sect to me, cause i ain’t going infertile
yeah, and i ain’t all about the paper, mate
i’m about using papermates to give rappers i fatal fate
you claim you’ll father me? hmm, well this just ain’t the day
cause you and me related is more a cat in the cradle case
my style’s fire man, i’m burning when i hit the mic
and you’re just stuck on making matches like the fiddler’s wife
i give a little bite, with riddles, i’m no simple type
my losing rate is like the republican fight for civil rights
surely i could rap about a fat sack
but what fun is it to make my lyrics that whack?
my favorite genre tried to take a catnap
and in from the darkness crept these sad, babbling -ss hats
i attack, yeah i’m here
sat around too long, i got this idea
it’s time to give these emcees high fear
spitting raw, i’ll start turning tables like i’m ikea
riding ’round my neighborhood in mom’s beat up corolla
with a tube sock ego, taking sips of pepsi-cola
everyone beware i’m trying angles for these squares
x and o’s get thrown in air like i’m a playstation controller
i’m a part-time baller, full-time liar
with my hat turned around, rocking thrift shop attire
my hobby’s chance, yeah it’s thinner than a wire
yet i still do it best, man, what more could you desire?
y’all need to stop all this bullsh-t from revvin’ up
cause it’s the fans tryna jam that’ll set ’em up
but they’re just watered-down -ssh0l-s rapping
to me they’re just anemones stuck in eminem’s enema

[outro]
yo sa-je, can i get a mic check?
yo miggs, can i get a mic check?
sam brown, can i get a mic check?
quise? prez? can i get a mic check?
j.r., can i get a mic check?
t.y., can i get a mic check?
ac gang, can i get a mic check?
name one line where i ain’t burn this f-cking mic yet

can i get a mic check?
can i get a mic check?
can i get a mic check?
name one line where i ain’t burn this f-cking mic yet

- internal rhyme lyrics

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