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letra de mona lisa - mars ill

[verse 1: playdough]
heads rush and faces blush with the stroke of my brush
while you was choking in clutch with every toke of the dutch
my word was spoken in such mannerism milking the prism
for some living colored talent
filling my palette with words and pastels
you rent with the track tells
just to pupil learning lessons and blessing the maxell’s
it’s like i’m leonardo divinc of quarter inch
just a starving artiste who’s at peace with stomach pinch
so clenched his right hand, direct to the mic stand
spot the mediocre joker then clash like titans
to find the cure i’m avoiding the last mile
man, your silly wack styles only worth a half smile
i’d burn it in graf style, make you respect my mural
then remember the name of playdough, though your referral
i probably won’t receive ’cause i cloak my sleeve
inside the plans of the carpenters hands
what i believe is perceived as weakness
though they couldn’t beat this
i just cover mediocrity with strokes of neatness
and i etch in the stone, my name next to some scriptures
it’s playdough, my words worth a thousand pictures

[verse 2: jax]
imagine the time spent to make your bare perfect
to comprehend, this rattle roll chest
leave myself though my many chrome brush
a palette of words dust a canvas suburb
more balance ease or tease the artist
whose heart is open for all to view
with a track i lose track of all thought of sp-ce and time
and visualize a rhyme to manifest
many a masterpiece remains are framed or ashamed
to be living from the others on display
take a gaze at legendary status living unlavish, jax
tears you’ll sow, a missile blow, ricochet while gulls ration
unlucky receiver of bleeping speed knot
courtesy of the biggest rep
official response of original cons of concepts
with in-depth type grip on how to do it correct
as ill as the sound is how ill it really is
thoughts brought forth resemble only a few
and far between is the amount of the whiffs from me to you

[verse 3: lil sci]
the black artist painting visual pictures through rhyme scriptures
i write distinct ink styles, verbally capture images
yes, i’m an artist so don’t try to tell me how to paint my picture
i’m hip-hop results in the streets like violence and malt liquor
my few points stay outtellectual of course
share my thoughts with those that are lost
searching for dignity, i vibe like a as ubiquity
i’m stevie wonder lyrically
y’all still trying to figure me like ancient egyptian mysteries
hmmmmmm hip to the hop, don’t to the stop
so whys radio playing all this nonsense around the clock
(who knows?) i suppose it’s the negative verse positive balance
challenging the masses, putting image before talent
yeah, that’s why you never see my face on the cover
scienz of life by child discovered the art of living
pictures i paint now are stories for my grandchildren
so my empire never stops building, can’t you see it

[verse 4: manchild]
it ain’t no joke, id like to choke this world to die in perfect harmony
but i’ll start, do my part for the art to educate my colony
come follow my odyssey, its entertaining, i swear solemnly
you can stare into my oddities, you can shutter at the thought of me
the thought of y’all collectively keeps me up most nights in a cold sweat
bite my tongue at times since inside it holds death
strike a delicate balance between solitude and challenge
raw sk!ll and developed talent, a gentle hand and sharp talons
while poverty plays the lottery and gambles with lives of people
wins and losses are correctly identified as necessary evils
agnostics paint themselves in the blood of the prophets
falling in love with the darkness with a plot to steal the dawn
and i’ll slash this canvas camp off fall victim to cash advances
set myself in battle stances take my chances in atlantis
where my artistry dwells, somewhere between heaven and h-ll
in-between subliminal street sounds and critical beat downs
i’m one of the few who follows through with intimidation
when i spit its like i’m letting heads in on inside information
when i’m long gone this world will recognize my accomplishments
how i sit at home and draft these blessed memos to my congressmen
begin with raw material, paint moral and average model
craving generic works of art with my heart for you tomorrow
my pen strokes express life and death, poetry and rhythm
grip the mic so tight that i’m developing carpal tunnel syndrome
and honestly, i prefer to create my masterpieces sonically
crush hard rocks with my voice box, but i guess that’s just the god in me
probably, they release my anthology
all apologies for my broken rotary phone-i just don’t hear destiny callin’ me
so for now, these 4 move forward to mic mastery
some day display my book of rhyme pages up in your gallery
playdough, jax, sci, manchild a spoken masterpiece
and someday, display this mona lisa in your gallery

- mars ill

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