[Intro: Apathy]
Yeah! Apathy... (Uh)
L the Headtoucha (yea)... J-Live...
Esoteric... (What!?) Yo! Yo!

[Verse 1: Apathy]
I'm like Bruce Lee swingin' nunchucks, nice with mic checks
You young bucks receive tongue fucks and sliced necks
Precise like a sniper with a heat scope
You choke, like a teen's first toke of weed smoke
I leave you broke like a weak rope was tied to a
Speedboat, waterskiing over in a peacoat
And all my tight flows tend to offend you
Gay pussies like dyke jokes for uptight white folks
Those who bite flows soon as I write those
Are cursed in the verse to stumble over the typos
I strike foes with the right blows, to make you flip
Like I'm shovin' the mics between your bike spokes
So if you imitate, mimic to simulate
I'll make your life shorter than the songs on a snippet tape
I spit it great to finish miniature fakes
And diminish your pace like roadblocks for prison breaks

[Verse 2: L Da Headtoucha]
My release is... somethin' to leave a n***a speechless
To each his own homes we can zone through the speakers
When I rhyme, time freezes, you better off to look and find jesus
See crime teaches, spit divine thesis
Good luck with the dime, got you up against the rucker rhyme
Mister rap a lot, twist the rhythm half a knot
Cross the map I got, bigger math to plot
Herbs have to rock, y'all ain't half as hot
Still stuck on how this rapper got
To the moon like fuckin' astronauts
Think you God now? Perhaps your not
I'ma smack your knot and take back the thought (word!)
Dozens of herbs will observe the sound
Unfamiliar to some from a land unfound
We rep the ground 'til the last round, surpass clowns
With central Mass. sounds, What you don't know? Ask around
Ski mask down, get around to ruin your name
Headtoucha motherfucker, still true in the game
[Verse 3: Esoteric]
Ya'll ain't worthy of war, I'm grimy like the dirtiest floor
I'm murderin' your brigade, they herbs to the core
I bring slaughter, you cats flavourless like spring water
King Arthur with the rhymes harder than Mings daughter
I'm Flash Gordon, fresh out the box are my black Jordans
Raps scorcher... cats or the track, author - slash - mad swordsman
You taking about graff, and how you keep reppin' shit
But you got a Jeopardy's contestant's penmanship
MCs look up to me like Extra P looks up to Paul C
Y'all see, I'm lethal and cerebral like palsy
Phoney gangsters leave your lungs a break
That ain't chrome that's silicone, your guns are fake
And in this indie industry, I'm what you call a model citizen
I got the discipline, position and conditionin'
The terrorists and the police are both listenin'
That's why the Feds tryin' to wet my like a christenin'

[Verse 4: J-Live]
Aiyyo, it's J dash L-I, who the hell am I?
Above average Joe with a likewise flow
The underground give me love for my lyrical wit
As the type of MC not to be not fucked with
I got my money on the means to expand my mind
I got my mind on more than the money which means
I ain't tryin' to make a livin' sellin' dreams to fiends
I'm out to see the young world livin' past 18
While you fantasize millions instead of the long green
Fuck a Lear jet, I'm trying to push a F-18
Drop a smart bomb on folks that don't see what I mean
Blow the spot, barrel roll and then flee from the scene
I'm thinkin' long range, the only thing constant is change
And yet still, my lyrics leave a permanent stain
On the mind of all those insultin' the name
J-Live, 99, still true to the game... What?!