J-Treds, Obsession, Loer Velocity, and Tru Persona Freestyle (The Time Has Come!)

[Intro: J-Treds]
Ladies and gentlemen. Once again, ladies and gentlemen. Let you know who’s back. And we ‘bout it. That’s me, J-Treds. Now it’s Pound—AKA. Who’s the dopest nigga? You say, “J.” That’s how it is. It’s time to get down. BK is where I’m found, AKA Pound. That’s right. A new name. I’ll come through with game. Yo, check it out, yo

[Verse 1: J-Treds]
Yo, with these skills, people say that he’s I’ll
But I got to see bills, so the flow’s now clean-filled
It’s priceless. Also raw and quite fresh
Trying to test, going overboard—no life vest
So they sink slow. Can’t you return? I don’t think so
‘Cause I’m one of the hottest on college or mix shows
Stay tuned. This is just my debut
Premiere, the intro. Just wait until page two
It’s more ill, more raw, more skill
So you best not pop shit like Orville
Son, I’ll pop back with a hot track
So when heads diss, they’re rocking a stocking cap
But they can’t hot. Only their skills are hand-sized
So better not get me steamed or you’ll get pan-fried
I’ll overcook ‘em. Now who’s raw? Overlook ‘em
Let ‘em know why so many heads are afraid to go to Brooklyn
‘Cause I’m there, son, and my rhymes feared
Most ain’t man enough to test—they probably don’t even bother
Can’t rap, flows suck, need to grow up
And the super calm-ass, dope emcee. What do you want now?

[Verse 2: Obsession]
I’ll take a rhyme to the stretch and reach the upper limits
Speaking run-on sentences ‘cause thoughts be, like, infinite
Too many in the world walk with their eyes tinted
Afraid to bear their soul so that people won’t get in it
If you focus on perception, you’ll be nothing but an image
An image is nothing. You can ask right by Q-Tipping
You’re see-through like when light be transmitting
Too many brothers trying to make dollars be counterfeiting
Artificial like a style that’s bitten
I’m trying to stay true to myself—that’s how I’m living
I confess I’m Christian, tryna avoid sinning
But this don’t stop me from living. I make mistakes and I’m repenting
I’ll be an activist like a kid from SNCC at a sit-in
When it comes to rhyming, I love to Rock like Chris, but I ain’t kidding
Tracks are like cops arresting, plus they hitting
Got me moving when I’ll be trooping through Washington and Clinton
Streets be hot like when my ancestors was cotton-picking
I’ll take this time out to thank them. We be forgetting
They lived their whole lives in a whole different setting
Peace to revolutionaries and activists who be repping

[Verse 3: Loer Velocity]
Unorthodox skills from out the mighty hills of Yonkers
Overconquers and Boogies Down more than Bronx does
Watch me stomp, cuz, in this oral presentation
And dissipate your breath like when there’s stifled ventilation
Leave ‘em Asian, slightly slanted. Take for granted
Never my skills. I’ll sever those heels from standing
Feet not firmly planted? Don’t submit weak defense tries
Your surrounding fence cries when going up against my
Semiautomated, infantry type orchestrated
To get you infiltrated, sedated, habituated
Intrusion cave in, blatant disposition displacement
You’re misconstrued attitude. I’m Loe like a basement
Average student of patience. It’s a virtue, non-commercial
Strenuous like game from uptown dames get worked through
Word, your curfew structure immobilization
Spit out heat [?] elevation
I’ll erase your whole station with marks of punctuation
[?] in H2O fluctuation
Syntax era conjugation. L’s relation to movement
Is out abouts. Got vowels and consonants to prove it
Our content knew it like rapping fluid with evasiveness
Your hits adobo ‘cause my words have done erased your fit

[Verse 4: Tru Persona]
Semi-transmission signals like kites
Brothers is mentally locked in the beast, released when the bragging rights
Is all settled. Metal-on-metal to hit Washington Heights
Cop hydro to make streetlights appear larger than life
Still using a Pilot razor-point pen like a knife
To split thoughts like Adam, pull one of his ribs off
For show thought. Each word a part of me, consuming humans to feed my
Alien arteries. Play me at parties on some old-school shit
I’ll lock in like Atari cartridges, two barters in trade
With the open marketers, but I’m undercover narc for the
Hip hop monarchy, my target is merchants of mankind
Soulsellers. The [?] your eyes and burn your wires dry
“Fuck wack emcees”—quote-unquote. Least of my problems
Why they delaying my passport to eat weak cuisine in Holland?
Yo, I’ll hold it down like I had to inject you with [?]
Caffeine and B12. The moral is: nigga, don’t sleep well