Pass Me the Mic Pass me the mic Pass me the mic I dissect beats like blueprints spread on cold tables, Angles in my cadence cut cleaner than broke razors. Thoughts move tactical, chessboards in the rain, I sacrifice pawns just to put the king in chains. Ink heavy as lead, every bar got mass, I bend time signatures, make the future look past. No filler, every sentence pulls weight like iron, I don’t rap to impress — I rap to realign ’em. I slide on the rhythm like tires on wet blocks, Low voice, high impact, make the head nod, then stop. Breath control velvet, but the message stays rough, Street gospel in the lungs, got the system handcuffed. I don’t rush bars, I let ’em breathe and bruise, Every pause talks louder than the words I choose. Mic gripped firm like a promise I won’t break, Pass it here — watch the whole room vibrate. Pass me the mic Pass me the mic Crack steam on the window, dice click in the dark, Silk suits over scars, every move leaves a mark. I narrate the night like a film with no credits, Every scene costs trust, every smile comes expensive. Corner store economics, cash-talk philosophy, Learned supply and demand from the hunger inside of me. I paint with specifics, make the crime feel framed, You can smell the scene just from hearing my name. My thoughts spill messy, like memories drunk, Laugh now, bleed later — that’s the way that we function. I talk to ghosts in my verses, they answer in tones, Every word got a pulse, every line flesh and bone. I don’t polish pain, I let it scrape the mic, Raw nerves in the booth every time that I strike. If my voice cracks, that’s the truth getting loud, I don’t rap for applause — I unload it on sound. Pass me the mic Pass me the mic Knowledge moves slow, but it lands with precision, I weigh every word like it alters decisions. Bars built symmetrical, logic in layers, I don’t shout for respect, I let silence persuade us. Math in my metaphors, science in slang, Turn a phrase into proof, make ignorance hang. This is thought as a weapon, not noise for the shelf, I sharpen minds when I’m spitting — including myself. I crash the tempo, trip over bars on purpose, Laugh mid-sentence, make nonsense turn nervous. Voice sounds reckless, but my aim stays mean, I scream through the mic till the meters turn green. No rules in my section, I punch holes in the beat, Kick the door off the hook, watch the track find its feet. They can’t copy this mess, it don’t come with a map, I don’t rap on the beat — I attack where it’s at. Pass me the mic Pass me the mic I see patterns in static, hear drums in decay, Turn dust into doctrine, let distortion obey. I speak from the cracks where the structure collapses, Build worlds from a loop and a needle that snaps. This ain’t music, it’s ritual pressed into sound, Every beat a circle, every verse going round. If the mic is a torch, I carry the flame, Burn ego to ash just to sharpen the name. Low tone, no rush, let the bass underline me, I don’t say much, but the silence behind me. Each bar lands solid, no need to explain, Pressure in delivery, diamonds in strain. When the beat fades out and the room goes still, They remember the voice more than memory will. Mic back on the table, smoke hangs in the air, Cipher complete — but the weight still there. Pass me the mic
