Every five minutes

When it’s phenomenal, you fiend to know who produced it.
phrases frequently heard regarding new music:
who the kid rhymin’? where he from? what’s the label?
well now’s a bad time to approach the turntables.
try again next millenium or some other bash.
but when they jock the disc jock, it’s another smash.
i just hit ‘em wit it minutes ago
on some exclusive promo to spin at the show-
twenty-five hundred heads waitin’ on black star.
when j-rocc throw your record on, you feel like allah.
visions of my image on the stage i was lookin’ at
from the balcony to down front, i coulda took aback
every ear spectatin’ inside the palace
(hype cuz my likeness just might bless the stylus).
but that was when i was the limelight addict.
nowadays gittin’ music added is my habit--
the kind you wait on to debate on or hate on
ever since the ad with the street date on.
and now the future can’t come quick enough.
promotional bandits out stickin’ mad stickers up,
they got graffiti goals --all city.
the anticipation keep clerks at fat beats way busy.
long before the day of reckoning
we make it so that when the album drop we cop ‘nuff respect again.
Chorus and now you want it like every five minutes.
you recognize vintage when i spit it.
from the illadel side all the way to venice,
no flaws, no blemish.
your lust for it’s endless
(repeat)
And word life, you thought you heard it last month, but wasn’t sure.
now you so salty. what you lent it to ya cousin for?
not that you thought you would see it again.
let the mix tape you hate be the one that you lend.
but is it the same joint that’s on your box now
when your mans ridin’ shotgun point out the style?
but then he turn it down, speakin’ on some pigeon he met
like the whip wasn’t yours, like you let ‘em forget.
so you scrape up some manhood and give ‘em a look
but by the time you turn it back up, you recognize the hook.
meanwhile inside your honda, ganja go clockwise
cuz you from the markets where private stock rise
and fall by the ounce cuz you bounce harder plastered.
it’s the same joint it just sound better mastered.
tried to tell brothers but you couldn’t recollect
how my newest-latest went, you just knew it was correct.
you couldn’t do justice. told ‘em look all i know
is grand came wit it, he followed up like a publicist.
you still thinkin’ ‘bout the tape ya cousin coveted.
well can you blame her? it is off the gauge,
required listening for livin’ in the grand age.
Like that!
Chorus
and now you want it like every five minutes.
you recognize vintage when i spit it.
from the illadel side all the way to venice
no flaws, no blemish.
your lust for it’s endless
(repeat)
Now i’m like wyatt earp, come through, quiet ya turf,
get ya city up in arms. wit the science i birth
a monster jam from my coast to yours,
line the meanin’ of this up with the jetstream and get it across.
when it’s all about aesthetics in sound, satisfaction is my attribute,
the proper noun -- hands down.
to retail spots i’m known as the grand agent.
see me at in-store, hear me at the station.
feel me at the concert, live is the preferred way.
fuck what ya heard, only a herb’ll say word-play.
you’ve been found out. the livest sound out is sought out.
that be mine cuz ya shit wasn’t thought out.
Chorus and now you want it like every five minutes.
you recognize vintage when i spit it.
from the illadel side all the way to venice
no flaws, no blemish.
your lust for it’s endless(ly)
(repeat)