[Verse 1: Martin Connor]

Heart
Smarts
His rap?
Fine-art-art
No guns
Or knives
But you can bet he rhymes sharp

Chosen one
Prodigal son
Breathes fire
From mouth to lung
My tongue' ll burn like suns
Til my work is done
Until you're none
Don't ask, just turn and run

From the newest white rapper
Rockin' the suburbs
So sick it's just absurd
Rhymes nouns and verbs for verbal murder
That wordy terror
And rarely errors

If there or not well ya never knew
Go ask someone they'll say Martin... who?
Cause when I make moves, I don't walk
I just slide on through no prints, hand or foot
Ya got no clue

[Verse 2: Martin Connor]

Come step
Get blessed with slick text
One wrecked
Two wrecked
Next, next next
Check!

How I check these mock hecklers
Check mate mate this shit's chess not checkers
You better get a better way to settle vendettas
Yeah I rap but I don't buy your barettas

I'll just fire my rhymes
Not a nine but still
Literally not figuratively blow ya mind
Like coke with lines that are straight and fine
Just not the kind ya sniff to blow some time

While I write my rhymes with out erasers
Get it right without a case of writer's block
Or the type from cops
Hit your upper and your lower like kinds from caps lock
To leave your life brief like the one a business man's got

[Verse 3: Martin Connor]

I'm the slicker bastard
Master trickster
Quicker classier craftier rapper
The faster slasher
Just not an ac-tor

Or a slack-er
Hipster basher
Hipper cracker
Mister macker
Sister Smasher
I could do this all day (sicker)
Do this all week (thrasher)
It's rather sad your
Raps are whacker been rapping since Pamper's
Been doing this a day

Guess I'm just nastier flashier
Cause I been schooled by masters
Classical music's pas-tor
But bad tempered
"Who's 'Batch', ya nerd?
Can't be what I heard