Vs.1
I’d be like…I’d be like…
I’d be like a sinister evangelist minister,
a scandalous Senator,
if I was underhanding my listeners.
If…
If I declared I cared
‘bout the drums and the snares,
I’d be lying; I’m a square…
#1’s my career!
This here’s only my hobby,
though I’m probably awfully doper than those who throw their soul and body
in this mess;
I’m envious of their seriousness,
but my interest and impetus is clearly much less.
Yes, and I’ll confess:
I’m out for bread, and for that I’m set at my desk.
Rockin’ sets is where I’d rather be;
but for that to be my occupation is a paycut,
and, for now, I’m making straight bucks and raising up.
So this music, sun? I don’t do it for the funds, I do it for the fun;
I do it to be one
with the (ugh) the beebop.
In a sense, Hip Hop is my Zen.

Hook:
I’m one with it
I feel the spirit of the rhythm when I bump with it
I take a breath and feel my lungs with the Zen
I bop with the Zen
I pop with the Zen
Hip Hop is my Zen within
I’m one with it
I feel the spirit of the rhythm when I bump with it
I take a breath and feel my lungs with the Zen
I bop with the Zen
I pop with the Zen
Hip Hop is my Zen-Zen-Zen-Zen

Vs.2
Maybe I’m quixotic with my exotic mixed logic
and mystic garbage,
when I talk as if Hip Hop is not just an object;
a product to get profit
in this mixed market of modernist artists,
where the novice is godless, and his target is just to live largest.
Pompous. Supercilious.
They’re on that stupid silly sh!t,
when there’s something more REAL you can feel in this.
When I spit it for REAL, I be feeling bliss;
this will give me more skill spilling from my lips.
And while I’m flowing, I’m calm;
when I’m in the zone, my dome is joined with the microphone I’m on.
And on it goes with no drama or comma
and for a momentless moment it’s Nirvana…
I’m like a music bodhisatva;
for you, it’s literal and lyrical;
for me, it’s spiritual.

Hook

Vs.3
Who’s more religious?
The preacher getting paid for it,
or he who makes time in his busy day for it?
From the moment he’s awake, oh, he’s stressed, and he’s pressed and depressed,
and can just barely wait for it.
But when he finally gets away, oh it’s…
so euphoric…his mind is like a harmonized chorus.
And in this time, my mind finds divine orbit,
when I combine rhetorics line for line with sublime forces
that’ll guide my rhyme’s focus.
My soul is free to flow; the flow of dopamine belies the rhymes dopeness.
The result’s a fine opus.
I’m far from perfect, but my art and work are what I find closest.
So let me keep my nine-to-six to grind for chips;
my time for spitting is a time for peace; time for bliss.
When my mind is free, the rhyme is crisp;
So get your ends with your pen;
my pen’s for the Zen.

Hook