Taken Um’ Back 2 School

Will Tell ft. Brooklyn Academy (ft. Mr. Metaphor, Pumpkinhead, Block McCloud, and I-See-On (AKA Icon)) - “Taken Um’ Back 2 School (AKA Violent Habits)”
[Emcee(s): Mr. Metaphor, Pumpkinhead, Block McCloud, and I-See-On (AKA Icon)]
[Producer(s): Will Tell]

[Verse 1: Mr. Metaphor]
Violent habits. I scan the globe with the eyes of a savage
Follow the light of my passage, stained glasses
Restrained actions, I hold my hands back from striking
Clash of the Titans. Ain’t taking shit—it’s my ass that you’re wiping
Dirty-minded and got support for every word behind it
Observe my rhyme. It could start to climb and then clog your sinus
Verbal pirates. The murderous thoughts rest inside us
Hell survivors coming to life, where we dwell is the livest
Gather ‘round us and feel the force generate within
It’s counterbalanced, bite you like frost, flying down the mountains
Through the valleys, over the hill. Son, my rhymes is countless
Brooklyn’s slouchiest raiding your houses, stealing your spouses
Forty spaces between my words are where your face is
And if you stand in any one, son, I’ma leave your mouth tasteless
Take your wifey’s fragrance, pawn it for a pound of dro, getting wasted
Puffing lye in the basement with a twenty-four case in it
And rhyme like we tasting this, spread the sauce and paste in it
Draw the card with the face in it, play my hand and leave the ace in it
You took my soul at birth, and now the world gonna pay for it
Stay safe, kid. Life ain’t what you make, it’s how you take it

[Verse 2: Pumpkinhead]
That’s my word. My army calmly wet up your dirty laundry
We stalking these streets like zombies, puffing palm trees
My godly flow shine more than Armani clothes and hit
Like body blows from Riddick Bowe. You didn’t know?
Twisting dro, make the average Joe pigeon-toed
I’m living low, protected by a wicked glow, reinforced
By the sickest bros who would jig you slow while you
Piss and moan. If all else fails, we let the pistol go
Lift your soul. Four-cylinder rap team
Powered by gasoline, Dr. King’s last dream
Brooklyn Ac’ clap fiends for cash green, rock a mask unseen
Hooded out, skully and gloves, looting your house
Slam a tutu to the roof of your mouth
Leave you with nothing left. I get nothing less than the best
Thoughts I manifest process, made my heart of cold compress
Put a hollow hole in your armpit. My conscious
Is Monstrous like Lochness. Had to chill with the cess
‘Cause when I slept, it gave me pains in my chest
Amazingly stressed but still rep the O.B.S., Brooklyn Ac’
Spit Squad, Congress, iron-palm grip

[Hook: Block McCloud] (x2)
Taking ‘em back to school—learning now how to
Act a fool. Son, you don’t wanna battle we
Put your mind in detention, so pay attention
To the Brooklyn Academy

[Verse 3: Block McCloud]
There many
Hard-pressed to see me like Hitler at a bar mitzvah
You’re part bitch, you give me the urge to start with ya
Your scars split the minute I start to spit the
Lyrics that carve into your carcass like a carpenter
My sharp jig’ll make your heart splinter, my inner cult
Is harsh winters in Antarctica. My al-
-coholic style is brolic. You think you fly? I’m fly-swatting
You cry colic. I’m a byproduct of
High product, smoke my chronic, kick like cryonic
Hold a mic silent, my arm is bionic
With psychotic eyes high on the psionic
You see that floor? You could die on it. I’m a diabolic
Spy plotting to put a shot in your eye socket
When my optic observe, you have to try and cock it
You shocked, kid? You had no prior knowledge. Put it in
Your pocket, save it for later. For now, we skyrocket

[Verse 4: I-See-On (AKA Icon)]
Icon was born in the storm, bombing in Nam, a firearm
Ringing four-alarms, lifting my palms
Live and let die, bulletproof, BK, NY
Armor to rise. We spark lye under the sky, vocally
Animate any rapper that battles half as straight
My class of explosive, ferocious flows make you dilapidate
Surgically amputate, rehearsing these verses on masking tape
Surviving shootouts where gods with thunderbolts conquered half the space
Coming soon: Rebirth of Earth. Be the month of June
While twelve Indians arise to the cries of a bloody moon
The silent night. Dead in my shoes like a lifeless Christ
My mic device devoured by hours speaking of violent sights
We’ll reach the sun. Vocally choking me made me eat my tongue
My life is like a violin, my heartbeat’s the drum
Open the garden’s gates. A marvelous race traveling Mars and space
Icon the Great run wild, stomping, charging like starving apes
My time’s soon. Sitting for hours, watching a flower bloom
The wisest from Osiris to Midas lay in a silent tomb
I have the key. Fuck a crowd—the street chants for me
Monopoly, the Parker Brother game strategy
Pentium chip characteristic, brain sodomy
Sincerely yours, Icon, Brooklyn Academy

[Hook: Block McCloud] (x2)
Taking ‘em back to school—learning now how to
Act a fool. Son, you don’t wanna battle we
Put your mind in detention, so pay attention
To the Brooklyn Academy