[Intro] g writer mr malachi science class check it [repetitive minor piano chords, steady boom bap drums] [record scratch] [Verse 1] I lace the bars with a lab coat, chalk dust on the sneakers Write a thesis in the margins, turn the beat to a speaker-seeker Every thought in sequence, every sentence got structure I don’t force the spark, I let the pressure help construct it From the flask to the blacktop, from the board to the booth I make a method out of motion, every measure rooted truth If the equation needs revision, then the mind stays flexible A closed door on new information is a choice I won’t be typical Copper in the wires, little voltage in the grin I can hear the rhyme model shift when the data rolls in No panic in the lab when the variables change I just recalibrate the cadence, keep the pattern in range Yeah, yeah, okay, the lesson get louder Malachi in the room with the whole class crowding One, two, three, four, watch the whole thing glow Open up the notebook, let the raw thoughts grow I can ride a bike with no handlebars But I can't ride a bike in the woods wearing camouflage Yeah, yeah, okay, you know I still do that Malachi on the track like true that New script, blue ink, sharp like a scalpel One, two, three, four, let the beat get handled [Chorus] Right about now you are doomed to witness The verbal demonstration of my lyrical fitness All up in your pyschward double dutchin mic cord Jumping jack rappers doing pushups on the soundboard Pull ups on the mic stand, can't jump white man High top Reebok, white socks, headband [Verse 2] I sketch the skyline in a notebook with a thunderstorm Every little rhythm got a reason and a uniform Quantum in the cipher when I step through the frame Turn a classroom whisper to a tidal wave of names Neurons in formation like a marching band of sparks I can light the whole route just by mapping out the dark If the bars need momentum, I provide the torque Every line got a backbone, every rhyme got a fork No filler in the system, I’m efficient with the phrase Turn a pop quiz into a pressure-cooker blaze If it don’t move the people, I don’t waste the breath I’d rather build a whole world than just race for the checks Yeah, yeah, okay, the lab stay active Malachi on the page with the facts and the magic Five, six, seven, eight, now the waveform bends Stack the layers in the chorus till the ceiling gives in I can ride a bike with no handlebars But I can't ride a bike in the woods wearing camouflage Yeah, yeah, okay, you know I still do that Malachi in the cut like true that Hard drive, sharp dive, clean like a textbook One, two, three, four, let the whole room look [Hook] Right about now you are doomed to witness The verbal demonstration of my lyrical fitness Bars do calisthenics, every set relentless Heavy weight syntax, gym class sentence Circle round the ring for the rap endurance Cardio cadence, breath control performance Mind-state marathon, long-distance sound Science class session when the bell goes down [Bridge] Step into the lecture, welcome to the lesson Every word a formula, every beat a question Measure out the data, lay it on the staff Metronome ticking like a second-hand graph Chalk dust swirling, rhythm in the air Mic stand podium, theory in the snare If you feel the thesis, let the drums explain This is hip-hop physics in your frontal lobe frame [Outro] [piano loop continues] [drums fade out] [final piano chord rings out]
