Open the doors, let the people in
|
Turn up the mics, let me speak to them
|
Victorious when the evening ends
|
It all starts when the beat begins
|
|
[ VERSE 1: Brother Ali ]
|
You're now fuckin with the show stopper
|
A-l-i the Brother, since "'89's the number"
|
Fuck "another summer," I'm the world's most accurate
|
Take the roughest cats and get em passionate
|
Shake awake the walking dead Lazarus
|
With off-the-head narratives, it's embarrassing
|
I mean, I'm the albino but y'all pale in comparison
|
I'm not arrogant, oh shit, well yeah, I'm arrogant
|
Grab the microphone out your arm so fast I tear a limb
|
Roman fashion, give yo soul a spasm
|
If you don't know find someone that knows and ask him
|
I'm right in front of ya, tight muthafuckin' mic muzzler
|
Who might struggle ya, my shit's wild like that
|
There's 8 million ways to stretch words around beats
|
And 6 million rappers be sharin the same three
|
But me takin the time to be creative with mine
|
Touch your soul till I see it in your face when I rhyme
|
And in the two or three seconds it may take to rewind
|
I hold a rapper to the flames until I make him resign
|
Want nobody hold your place in this line, you find a space to recline
|
You're dead, got to stay breakin your spine
|
|
[ CHORUS ]
|
Every father, mother, son and daughter send 'em to me
|
Do not approach the ock without bendin' your knees
|
I might be on the stage but my head's in the streets
|
We settle the beef (when the beat comes in)
|
|
[ VERSE 2: Brother Ali ]
|
Ladies and gentlemen, Brother Ali bare the resemblance
|
Of Moses freein y'all with sentences, vocabulary venomous
|
Telling domestic horror stories
|
Non-fiction with the majestic oratory
|
Instead of concentratin' on strippin' the youth naked
|
I give em the truth naked, livin proof for the sacred
|
Unless I'm mistaken there's like three kind of people
|
Black people and white people and my people
|
I blister MC's and let em' twist in the breeze
|
I got a funny knack for bringin kids to their knees
|
Y'all got Christopher Reeve-sized bravery tryin to play with me
|
Have you in fetal positions shoutin "Get away from me!"
|
Every day I see rappers I wanna slap or strangle
|
Around they neck disaster dangles, so that's the angle
|
Next millennium, same percentage of em are weak
|
Y'all thinkin y'all can rhyme, don't even come from the streets
|
You got any sense at all, you mean-mug and retreat
|
Or end up a human pinata hung from your feet
|
When I told you you were tight I had my tongue in my cheek
|
And you ain't lookin at my team, buddy, our huddle is deep
|
Born to hustle on beats, I just have it within
|
If I had any more potential I would have to be twins
|
Cackle and grin when rappers begin to babble and spit away
|
Y'all should pick a day, the it-gay, the off-the-ick day
|
|
[ CHORUS ]
|
|
[ VERSE 3: Brother Ali ]
|
I'm a desperado, but I guess that y'all know that already
|
My stick-and-move flow pattern steady
|
The Bro has already dissed rappers of every race
|
Got em together for a "We Are the World" remake
|
If Ali's fake please take this opportunity to tell he
|
To he's face, get your infrastructure erased
|
When I flip damn it I'm fly, kick sand in your eye
|
And tell your record company to eat a shit sandwich and die
|
Ali's a big teddybear
|
Till they scream, "Stop slammin the car door, that's my fuckin head in there!"
|
Your teeth are everywhere, I serve your family
|
And write about it in my journal like I'm Mister Belvedere
|
I seldom stare in the sky, only at nighttime
|
Envision endin your mission when I write rhymes
|
History's never witnessed a legacy quite like mine
|
And the more they try to extinguish it, the more the light shines
|
|
[ CHORUS ]
|
|
-----------------
|
When The Beat Comes In
|
Brother Ali |