About 10 Seconds

Song: About 10 Seconds

Album: After What Came Before

Artist: The Blend

Written by Toussaint Morrison

Released April 23, 2005

ref: 

I’ve watched emcees battle and watched’em talk,

I’ve watched emcees smoke, and watched’em cough,

I watched a cipher turn into an all out brawl

rampant ass whoopin’ caught one to the temple, woke up sprawled.

Though it was pokin’ fun,

punchlines, bars, jokes, and puns.

Cool, chill, and calm, hit the exit long gone.

These dudes didn’t come to rap, they came lookin’ for somethin’ to bomb on

worst than if George Bush were to spot Sadam’s Mom

taggin’ her name on the front door of the white house with Tom1.

So I’m on, I got the mic, got somethin’ to say,

I wanna squeeze the moment and pump life into yesterday.

I wanna kill all my grays, and turn’em into gold.

I wanna crown, a castle, and a cordless microphone, and sit in a throne-

Bitch, who the fuck do ya’ think your battlin’?

I’ll cut ya’ off by the manhood, and call you Madeline…

I lost control…

went and cracked a joke about his boy in the hospital.

So, he turned around threw down, bum rushed and rocked me.

Dropped drunk and sloppy, odds worst than Rudy or Rocky,

or makin’ it rich, livin’ in Compton,

knocked out colder than February in Milwaukee-

somethin’s off key, Ryan why didn’t ya’ stop me?

You coulda grabbed me by the throat and knocked me unconscious,

but nooooo, I had to be on some shit.

Got a broken nose, tryin’ to role with the punches

starin’ at the sky, blue in my eye,

my ego’s appetite, gots me thinkin’ I can fly

-

Chorus

Gettin’ pushed in a crowd at a violent pace

Lost tryin’ to find a familiar face

We wanna blend in feelin’ outta place

And then we play it off leanin’ up against the wall

-

Meanwhile, I’m angst, countin’ my paces humiliated

walkin’ away from the situation bleedin’ embarrassment,

while you breathe in arrogance, soaked in your vocal carelessness.

Hope the pavement isn’t somethin’ your ego is scared to kiss-

bear with it, the temptation of temporary fame

only lasts ‘til Sunday mornin’. It’s a psychological game

gamblin’ with confidence, subtract your positive to a forgotten name

roamin’ the bottom plane strugglin’ to get to the keg

passed plastered, packed bladder, trashed past the point of laughter.

Now, it’s only a matter of vomit and stature.

I stand back and grin cracked as a mad hatter,

pull a swig of the black lager, tip my hat and head back to

the basement music playin’ another Saturday chapter.

My cup of water can’t silence the weekend screamin’ faster,

chasin’ after eye’s iris’…

It’s all too common, goin’ outta style to be an X-factor

-

Chorus

-

Where anybody’ll tell you they had it hard at some point,

whether a bad hair day, or gettin’ jacked at gun point,

my fatal fury’s been clockin’ in at the wrong time.

There’s too many stages, bosses, and clotheslines-

I flow fine, and sometimes freestyles the only ticket

like tap dancin’ and paint brushin’ in Greenwich Village.

No matter the satisfaction, the night still feels unfinished,

gots me turnin’ in my sleep, keeping the bed sheets twisted.

See I’ve watched emcees battle and I’ve watched’em talk shit

tryin’ to fit into these circles, squares, and boxes,

often lost in, there own testosterone cross stitch:

an embossed fabric wit’ a bad habit of crossin’

that fine line between “Hey he’s cool” and that guy

hittin’ on your girlfriend and callin’ your crew out at the same time.

Your manhood is being questioned!

and I’m not askin’ ya’ to step outside-hey, just askin’ a question… bitch.

The mind is just as fucked and unstable

whether circled with friends, or alone at the lunch table-

squeezin’ my juice box amongst a sea of blonde blue

wonderin’ what the fuck am I tryin’ to belong to.

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Chorus