L.I.F.E. Long (Verses vs Beats)

[Intro: L.I.F.E. Long]
Yo. L.I.F.E. Long. Trying to keep up, you know’m saying? Trying to keep up. Verses vs Beats for Blowout. Yo

[Verse 1: L.I.F.E. Long]
I’ll take it to
The far regions. Hope you dressed for the season
It’s about to get hot—all four-alarms are ringing
And I’m blazing the spot from my heat inserted in your
CD-dual-cassette boombox. And if you’re in a ride
Turn your system up. You know the speed got you stuck
Like if you inserted Blowout’s track in the ducts, then sparked up
Now you’re twisty, lifting in upstate like
Poughkeepsie. But keep your balance straight, don’t swerve
My words be designed to leave equilibrium disturbed
Now your course is off—on some “can’t find your way,” lost
On the mission to find the main ingredient in my special sauce
Got you taking shorts with no reference to boost it
By using over-your-head flows to keep you on your toes
Got heads reaching for the climax, but got sliced
In the face by a Turntable Anihilist scratch. I’m your
Sublevel creature feature that greet you
With a buzzer in my hand, giving shocking palms to freak out crews
L.I.F.E. Long. You didn’t know? Check my dues
Been paying mine. Always blow the spot ‘cause
I fight with landmines, hook spit with a mouth filled
With C-4. I’m toxic, off-the-hinges like a broke door
But you can’t walk through me—it’s just a metaphor
I’m more like a trap set to catch, sweeping feets
Leaving bodies upside-down when I hang cats
Got kids [?] my abduction just for not following
Instructions and taking proper precautions
You should have read the manual on how not to get got
I’m live and direct from off the Stronghold block
Plus I’m Writers Guild. Careful ‘cause the ink’s still wet
On the battlefield. Moving to make it to the next meal
Do for self—fuck a deal—unless you want to talk
A cool mill for me to still do my own. Ain’t nobody’s clone
"Let My Rhythm Hit 'Em" like Rakim—the legend’s known
For the wise. My mind a crystal gem, always
Drop jewels hitting in the center of your area
I’m in a b-boy stance, repping for the new millennium era
Welcome to the terror that you about to face
Straight-up raw, no chaser. Verbal Speed Racer
Blowout’s a concoctionist beat lacer
Stirring it up with me: L.I.F.E
Long, sounding sick with it, off-the-rockers
Like banging your head into a locker or getting hit by a brick wall
That’s my logo smashing you, making you fall
You sinking in quicksand, under, beneath land, man
It’s a small world and ain’t everybody living on it
[?] survive. I’ve arrived to erase those who lie
Make ‘em fess up to the truth. Most ain’t really who
They claim they are—got disguises on, hiding behind
Bars they spit. But I’m equipped with methods
To make you flip. Taking my position as head honcho
Got glasses on, looking like Groucho. Trying to get
This cash, yo. Ain’t got no pipe dreams
Of trying to blow. I’ll do what I got to do. Big up
To DMO, Q-Boro Sounds keeping it thorough
I’ll rep two boroughs: Queens and Brooklyn
Leaving you shooken like you out in the cold with no coat on
And it’s freezing. You premature, still teething
Stupid for no reason. But I remain in first
Place, crossing the finishing line, snatching the prize
Then leave the scene like a winner with the gleam of
Success in my eyes, then ignite peace pipes
And take flight like friendly skies