Boy Genius Songtext
von Kwamé
Boy Genius Songtext
Date: February 10th, 1989, 5:35 AM
A young man sits in his room
Working on the formula to the perfect rap
As he punches the final program, he is labeled
As the boy genius
Hold the microphone, with a uzi grip
My rhymes are the ammo, and the brain is the clip
′Cause I'm smarter than a microchip, and the mic don′t slip
When I strike yo' lip, on the psycho tip
I know game, so don't try to base
All mistakes are strokes of genius, so I never erase
It′s a show and prove, not a show and tell
And I′mma sho' thrill, any no frill
Hold a punk MC, heavy, to a feather weight
While I lounge, because I′d rather wait
The perfect place, the perfect time, and me, I get spectacular
The microphone's the cross to those are bitin′ the rhymes like Dracula, huh
Some say we bit, some say we munch
Because I made your whole posse look like the Brady Bunch
Because the black that took the rap, has now returned
The mic was mine, you felt the rhythm, and now ya learn
'Cause I′m the Kwam, capital K, rap it all day
Hell wit' the pause button, slap it on play
As the night goes on, so does this Invincible's eager attempt
To conduct the first rap symphony, consisting of the slickest lyrics ever known to mankind
With drum machine carefully made into a digital sampler
He grows closer and closer to his goal
How many breaks have been used, abused, misused
How many clues, I′m still confused
9 times out of 10, I find times that when
I hit my radio, I hear the same beats again and again
When will it end?, Don′t mean to cause friction
They say that I talk in a contradiction
Though I hook up a break now and then, know they unreliable
I compose, revise, the micro, recycle
A metamorphosis, I better offer this
Challenge to anyone, who tries to come off of this
So twiddily, diddily, from Harlem, to Italy
Rap, you in the little league, intrigue a melody
Compose, on those, so called, intros, impose
And close, points which I gather, and I mean this
Lay back, boy, 'cause I′m the boy genius
After his mother demands "lights out"
Kwame is forced to work in total darkness
Is this the end of the New Beginning
Or will he receive a beatdown?
Peace, for I, self, the Lord Master
Islam is my belief, and I'mma blast my
Life into orbit, just like a sattelite
Forfeit, get off it, ′cause I'm the man that′ll write
Rhymes, spark your brain cells, entertain it
Pain swells, make ya crew look like Charlie's Angels
Take your mic minerals, hip hop vitamins
Bring a lot of men, it be a riot when, brother, try again
I bought your grammar, my rhymes are torture
Me I ran a, demo, caught ya
Red handed, can't stand it, you planned it, rhyme bandit
Beat your fan it, shut up, can it
4-3-2-1 the Kwam is on
Only book that I need, is the Holy Quaran
So I can manifest, and address
Politics, that make my wallet stick, out of my pocket thick
That′s why i′m talkin' slick, so
Yo, does anyone know, why I rap slick?
′Cause by takin' the microphone
I′m wipin' my lips like Chapstick
So I can demonstrate that I′m a hip hop fiend
Mic's a tool to rule, and cruel like Idi Amin
Stand strong as a general, no sucker can stop me
With the strength of Gaddafi, and my cousin named Shaffi
After successfully completing the last verse
I wonder, was the rap world ready, ready for this, this form of music
Are hip hopers aware, of this dopeness? The hypeness?
The super def, dookiness involved in such a man?
A man known to the music industry as a member of the Invincibles
Kwame, the boy genius
A young man sits in his room
Working on the formula to the perfect rap
As he punches the final program, he is labeled
As the boy genius
Hold the microphone, with a uzi grip
My rhymes are the ammo, and the brain is the clip
′Cause I'm smarter than a microchip, and the mic don′t slip
When I strike yo' lip, on the psycho tip
I know game, so don't try to base
All mistakes are strokes of genius, so I never erase
It′s a show and prove, not a show and tell
And I′mma sho' thrill, any no frill
Hold a punk MC, heavy, to a feather weight
While I lounge, because I′d rather wait
The perfect place, the perfect time, and me, I get spectacular
The microphone's the cross to those are bitin′ the rhymes like Dracula, huh
Some say we bit, some say we munch
Because I made your whole posse look like the Brady Bunch
Because the black that took the rap, has now returned
The mic was mine, you felt the rhythm, and now ya learn
'Cause I′m the Kwam, capital K, rap it all day
Hell wit' the pause button, slap it on play
As the night goes on, so does this Invincible's eager attempt
To conduct the first rap symphony, consisting of the slickest lyrics ever known to mankind
With drum machine carefully made into a digital sampler
He grows closer and closer to his goal
How many breaks have been used, abused, misused
How many clues, I′m still confused
9 times out of 10, I find times that when
I hit my radio, I hear the same beats again and again
When will it end?, Don′t mean to cause friction
They say that I talk in a contradiction
Though I hook up a break now and then, know they unreliable
I compose, revise, the micro, recycle
A metamorphosis, I better offer this
Challenge to anyone, who tries to come off of this
So twiddily, diddily, from Harlem, to Italy
Rap, you in the little league, intrigue a melody
Compose, on those, so called, intros, impose
And close, points which I gather, and I mean this
Lay back, boy, 'cause I′m the boy genius
After his mother demands "lights out"
Kwame is forced to work in total darkness
Is this the end of the New Beginning
Or will he receive a beatdown?
Peace, for I, self, the Lord Master
Islam is my belief, and I'mma blast my
Life into orbit, just like a sattelite
Forfeit, get off it, ′cause I'm the man that′ll write
Rhymes, spark your brain cells, entertain it
Pain swells, make ya crew look like Charlie's Angels
Take your mic minerals, hip hop vitamins
Bring a lot of men, it be a riot when, brother, try again
I bought your grammar, my rhymes are torture
Me I ran a, demo, caught ya
Red handed, can't stand it, you planned it, rhyme bandit
Beat your fan it, shut up, can it
4-3-2-1 the Kwam is on
Only book that I need, is the Holy Quaran
So I can manifest, and address
Politics, that make my wallet stick, out of my pocket thick
That′s why i′m talkin' slick, so
Yo, does anyone know, why I rap slick?
′Cause by takin' the microphone
I′m wipin' my lips like Chapstick
So I can demonstrate that I′m a hip hop fiend
Mic's a tool to rule, and cruel like Idi Amin
Stand strong as a general, no sucker can stop me
With the strength of Gaddafi, and my cousin named Shaffi
After successfully completing the last verse
I wonder, was the rap world ready, ready for this, this form of music
Are hip hopers aware, of this dopeness? The hypeness?
The super def, dookiness involved in such a man?
A man known to the music industry as a member of the Invincibles
Kwame, the boy genius
Writer(s): Kwame Holland, Herbie Azur Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
