I'll come Running Back To You - Edan

The E-triple is a sick cracker,

I’mma flip fast, and bitch-slap a thick rapper

After this I’ll make your brain stop

Trying to battle’s like trying to light a candle with a raindrop

I ain’t having it;

you’re at the stage laminate;

After the show, you let me know you was a great fan of it,

The music that the E makes or creates

I’ll make a thousand beats out of three crates and feel great

But if you want to rush the place and bluff and base

I’ll fart in my hand and touch your face

I never need an L or booze to elevate;

I kill eleven crews

Make the Channel 7 news and celebrate

My cerebellum breaks atoms;

my brain patterns

Came from the same strange chasm that made Saturn

So don’t doze on the shit I compose, cause I was

Digging for Records while you was digging in your nose

So if you want to brawl and beef from across the street

I accomplish feats, cause talk is cheap

I meet jerks with a miss-ile, you’ll be hurt when I reverse your

Work into a shit-pile, The dictator flips data;

You’ll get slain by a diss-master so ix-nay on the chit-chatter

I’m so passionate, it’s accurate to say that I’m an

Addict for the mic, cause I keep running back to it

I’ll come running back to you…

So I was saying I’m a fiend for the

Pristine raps on the sixteen-track recorder

We oughta collaborate if you can imagine a way of

Lacerating the rhythm with fixing a fatter plate

When rotating on a Tech-12 platform

I excel at warp-speeds and jaws bleed

I force-feed a cross-breed the thoughts needed to

Keep a secret and leave a weasel easily defeated

I’ll tell you short like a dumb midget: you’re not rhyming live so get a

Motherfucking nine-to-five and run with it

I’ll sit your ass in a cubicle fast, or any other slave-

Driven environment for you to adapt

My name’s written on every appliance in your brain-kitchen

To make riches is one of my main missions

But it’s not the determining factor, your ass-crack will

Catch a back-draft when I’m burning an actor

Verbal assassin;

my architect pleases…

(«When I was twelve…») I ate a lot of grilled cheeses

But nowadays to hold the mic’s my only vice, so behold the might of a

poltergeist

It’s Edan not the Smothers Brothers

And if the microphone was heroin, I’d be a dead motherfucker!

Base-heads need crack;

I tried to leave the mic alone, but yo, («I can’t hold it back!»)

I’ll come running back to you…