Listen, I’ll tell you that Frontalot is incredible,
even recommended to rock the mic, like: instead of a
silence you’d have me fronting into the amplifier.
Point with the thumb, at which mc to admire.
I got hi-res images of drum sounds that I loop.
You get to listen to them and to me, too.
How fortunate y’all are to get to bask under my glow.
The MC: humble conduit to nerdcore flow.
Now it’s time for a little braggadocio
while I swing my arms like Ralph Macchio.
I stand seventy-seven feet tall, I’ve got eight balls,
and all of y’all are subject to my thrall.
I act appalled when in receipt of less than the highest honor.
Some day I’ll be both revered & passé, like Madonna.
I’m all in effect. People tend to genuflect
when I enter rooms, ’cause all dopeness is subsumed.
I spell the doom of the hip-hop subgenre you used to prefer.
The geekish rhythm: intersection
with the predilections that I’ve incurred.
You say “word?” With a surfeit of beats, I’m unlikely to run out;
plus, I’m so bright it’s like redundant to have the sun out.
One out of each ten brags is hyperbolic.
It’s all inconsequential, you’re just here to hear my tongue frolic.
Pistachios ain’t that great. I thought I’d mention ’em:
distinctive from how awesome I am. My rhyme’s venturesome!
Then the dumb luck of it all is I discover
other rappers already bragging,
but front’s on sync — no lagging!
Keep slang in files that recombinate to add weight to fat tracks.
I overlaid this very vocal via gums that flap.
I sap clock cycles from the sucker MCs as they struggle to parse,
and yet this Front’s no farce!
Some awesome massive aspiration stations self in my head:
to be the dopest innovation since the slicing of bread
instead of simply relying on my insistence to prove
that every twist of my tongue is another radical move.