Matt Nye - Subliminal Messages

★ Intro: Mickey Factz ★
It's the distinguished gentleman
That’s what I like to call myself
But for everybody else
One above all, that's me
Huh, it's Mickey

★ Verse 1: Mickey Factz ★
Look, I see bread in my future, oh yeah, I’m a prophet (Whoo)
Scramble for green like a Vegetable Omelette
Gettin' deposits, learning with impeccable knowledge
One rule, make fire, no festival concert (Yeah)
Uphold standards, every trick with a steady grip
Never fail with drip, even with F's on Fendi fits (Yeow)
A plus, excellence with the pencil tip
Instrumental lit, when the devil spits, then Heaven quits (Whoo)
Measure this, no ruler, slicker than Rick
Minus eyepatches, my rhymes acid sizzle the script
Biohazard, why ask if I'm really legit?
Chiropractic, every line backed by Mickey The Spit
Facts fly (me), working with Matt Nye, the bad guy
Giving black eyes to whack tribes that can't vibe
Stand by for the bomb tracks, I land mines
And hand live minds to speak after I craft rhyme

★ Verse 2: Matt Nye ★
I walk the streets like I'm shitty off of a bit a yack
Smoking back to back, my speaker bumpin' that Mickey Factz
I want that Tupac back, go shoot a crooked cop
Bodies in the streets, they want us dead on some Poppa Doc
For my deliverance, I need a blunt to Bubba Spark
They spew lies then spin webs, they on their Peter Park
My heart consumed by the dark, venomous Eddie Brock
Man, I come from a block that's now a parking lot
Grandpa hung with Siegel, but never referred to mob shit, our shit
But I come from good stock like a thirty ought six
And make a quick point from a distance through fixed optics
Some drop kick, shoot the wall marts and hit targets
Heartless, Tin Man, yellow brick road to Oz trips
No conscience, the shit that make a motherfucker nauseous

★ Chorus: Matt Nye ★
That’s right, hold tight, roll blunts, minimal beverages
We’ll be right back after these subliminal messages

★ Verse 3: Matt Nye ★
I'm about to open your mind like Kennedy in the Lincoln
Or Lincoln in the Ford box seats with Booth reachin’
I wonder who I'd be if my father was never drinkin'
Probably be a rich man, profit off of your grievin'
Don’t give a fuck for the world, I hoard it all 'til I'm leavin'
The quest for diamonds and pearls, entangled entwined with demons
They used to never call back, now they want me to queen 'em
Now I just ghost 'em and haunt if I wanna see 'em
Was scared to have kids back as a kid when Jimmy Rice died
I ain't go to school with white guys at night, it's Columbine
I stay inside with concubines who then strayed the line
I kicked her out and then was solitarily confined
And all the moments by myself have left me border-lined
So I could give a fuck 'bout you home, because there's four of mine

★ Chorus: Matt Nye ★
That's right, hold tight, roll blunts, minimal beverages
We'll be right back after these subliminal messages