[Verse 1]

The reach be to peaks, that’s steep, like rock climbers/
And the message is to be received like bonfires on horizons/
Word to the wise, who none the wiser/
From the psychic foreseein’ more biter than Rottweiler/
But no Lycan, I ain’t a sidekick or a hype man/
Kabuki with the side-kicks, and don’t forget the hyphen/
I’m stiflin’, punk motherfuckers at the mic stand/
Who triflin’, I’m talkin’ long con to slight scam/
The right man for the job, commandin’ a mob/
Of nasty motherfuckers that be clawing for the top/
Like this is Hip Hop, we just be takin’ what ours/
And praying for God’s forgiveness ‘till he’s takin’ the charge/
Or takin’ my case, in case I’m breakin the law/
By breakin’ your face, breakin’ ‘em off a taste of the raw/
We takin’ your place, like breakin’ locks and takin’ charge/
So safe to say that you’ll be takin’ the loss, I’m signing off/

[Chorus 2x]

To who the fuck is it I owe the displeasure/
Go cue the music, so to do the unexpected/
Like envelope, you’re foldin’ up to this pressure/
Specktacula forever stirrin’ up the distemper/

[Verse 2]

At twenty-three o’clock on the dot, I got the second hand/
So mentally I’m sharpening more tools than Leatherman/
For finicky-from-the-start rappers who hesitant/
By any means, who gon’ march back to the precedent/
Yet they never set one, like Stetson of the West won/
I’m steppin’ on the toes of my foes, no exceptions/
My color Specktrum is as infinite as clockwork/
You and your brethren equivalent to bratwurst/
You got served, then read ahead of the crossword/
At a loss for words, behind the curve of the shot heard/
From ‘round the third world, I’m talking cold/
But ain’t no fur coats, so lock and load, and drop the first yolk/
We cookin’ with gas now, and tryna’ have the last laugh/
The lab rat, we Breaking Bad, so where the stash at?/
You gas lamp, forever burnin’ on the oil/
While I’m turning up the voltage of a billion Tesla Coil/
[Chorus]

[Verse 3]

Refined taste of the craft is what it takes/
To describe to great lengths, of the crap that take the cake/
But you ain’t buyin’ it, you on some Black Bart, you pirate it/
Halfway in the game you took the pardon from the lion den/
The sleeping giant that woke up realizing/
To choke up his grip of the bat, heads started flying/
From the neck bone, who keep it sharper than a whetstone?/
No headroom, call him the Harbinger of Def.Tone/
No headphone, could do me justice like system/
I hit the ground runnin’ like a race, ain’t do this shit for fun/
The slicker tongue of the Speckter to get you sprung/
From the pen, it demand respect, for the rest of ‘em get you hung now/
And I ain’t talkin’ out to dry, more like to bait the hook/
You claim to rock the triple-eye, but you afraid to look/
You played and shook as the rook that got kinged/
When they put me in the tourney, man, I took the top seed/