C.H.A.O.S. Theory

Question: is it possible for an emcee to rhyme on the spot without prior knowledge to what he's rhyming about? That's just what this rap addict asked under a decade ago, it is then when he learned exactly what it means To flow. Now, pay attention children This is an exact science, and that is why you are here Out of smoke, a bad habit I chose to Practice even before I studied jaw gymnastics I needed to have it You picked the wrong campus, for that bliss, for sure, I was lured by Hippocratics critical to my dabbling in black magic Ok, I erred Spurred by the ticklish pulling, I conversed with a bit of a bully Further who had stolen my sweatshirt But I needed herb, so it really didn't concern me I journeyed to his room down the hall, the smell of stale boom was on patrol They were passed out cold, I should go When I heard, naw man, let's roll It was an 82 Volvo, I recall, on the cross country path, to be exact Freestyle and blunts under night fall I just wanted a sack, not rap Had to be introduced to the troops, the etiquette approach for the roach Definitely not used to getting loose And scared when Red spoke so close It's the collected and hectic attraction of syllables, fillable Only to consciousness fertile and tillable, willing to Accept eclectic vital mens and minstrels, winter will Pale in comparison, garrison sicker than kryptonite icicles His rapping came scantily clad but not, lacking in answering fast The one question that I had to ask Is that pen fed rap? These are off the head he explained, then led me round the deck name by name While commenting on each player who played the game Then passed the mic away To K-Kizzy, the six'three representer, who entered, nearly splintered Red's banter down the Center with a lecture from dimensions unknown As enigmatic embryos were sown Clouds of smoke with no holes in this, flow-zone, my feet were telling me You are so stoned! Brains blown by Blunts rolled, then came the hispanic Tornado, Castro, from Puerto Rico, freaking the speakers with Spanish flow, no way Making me say puta madre! Cuida te, though, no te llagas, I'm not in the show I just came to smoke! Naw man, don't front It's your turn to go It's the collected and hectic attraction of syllables, fillable Only to consciousness fertile and tillable, willing to Accept eclectic vital mens and minstrels, winter will Pale in comparison, daring them to leave frozen individuals Come on man, it's your turn to learn, if you fake the funk And don't flow, you won't have any blunt to burn But I don't want anymore, wait, I've never, ah! Fine! I'll try to rap this time, be like Tarzan and grab the Vine, use it to climb up the beanstalk Naw man, that's Jack Wait, me thought, then appeared this little Green box, for every verse I began, a rhyme or Thirteen dropped, so I use it to be comprehensible When I talk, see? Watch Vanglorious, it's chaos, the favorite method of mic checking for J-Toth And why performers acting as emcees stay soft While I'm hard like the playoffs What is freestyle? Tangents attached by topics sensical or outlandish Depending upon what seeds you manage to Plant with? I bring beans of magic And when that bean stalk grows, it is beautiful watching the prose unfold Tales to be told about braggadocio, foes and m.o.'s Just no more gold, hoes or clothes Impromptu is too cold, watching your mind explode on the mic, and every time A new rhyme is composed live, fans go out of Control, and you know you got soul Just watch for the so-called freestyle though that you Might catch at an open mic or a show Where you notice some spectacular"flow" Then you hear that same verse on his next video But yo, I don't mean to bitch and moan, but Some of these heads need to quit Changing definitions to fit their own If you can't condone the raw poem Then leave the hardcore art form alone