To Bob Ross with Love

[Verse One]
Now who you know leave the scene messier than canvases
By Jackson Pollock throwin multicolored thoughts at a rapid pace
I'll, make a mess you dissect it and make sense of it
Then get back to me, at your earliest convenience
Check my verbal sequence, as I texturize these tracks
Seven layers to be exact, eliminate the wack
With a firm brush stroke, I MC paintily
Lyricists begin crumblin, from my scumblin technique
As I tweak your audio and visual
Keep my drips minimal, messages subliminal
Cause me and rap go way back, we compliment
So together we enhance one another that's common sense
High intensity catches the eye, your jaw drops
Be a real critic, not explicit with false props
I keep my thoughts deep my lights bright, I'm very thorough
With my chiaroscuro inspiration sparkin the knife
Now watch me rock the spot like Basquiat, minus the heroin
And make my face popular like Andy did to Marilyn
It's kinda scary when, real art gets left behind
While they take bullshit, and start sellin it to blind folks
But, I remain humble
As long as Grayskul continues spinnin hot shit
On his twin twelve-hundred color wheels of steel
Fuck mass appeal, art is art
Only the real can truly feel it
So, open your eyes and listen, combine your ears with vision
Or do it cause you love it or for cash that's your decision
That's your decision, that's your decision

[Verse Two]
Its like I'm torn between two worlds, a paintbrush and a microphone
A canvas or a beat, CD or LP
Anything goes when my ink pen flows
And God only knows where it's gonna bring me next, so
I'm inclined to like paint rhymes
And spit kaleidoscopes, with one eye closed
And I suppose if you chose the path that I chose
You know the cycle asshole don't front
It goes, inspiration and productivity
Then, a sense of self-worth and in steps depression
Like back and forth, and forth and back
Should I, paint a picture or record a track
A gift or a curse; I don't know I'm still undecided
But, over the years I've found clever ways to hide it
And those that lack the passion I have may despise it
But my momma made me this way, I thank her everyday
So tell them kids to keep colorin outside the lines
Until they lose they limitations and they minds is free
Tell the teachers that you want your money back this time
And tell Bob Ross thanks for all the happy little trees
And tell my momma that her baby boy's doin just fine
Although he's runnin out of patience but his mind is free
And tell my pops that I'll pay his money back sometime
And that his son is two steps away from where he needs to be