Internal Rhyme - Mic Check [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Verse 1]
I try to progressively learn to make the best of my turn
Upon this mic, because that light will make your recipe burn
So I stay down to the Earth like I'm a freshly-grown turnip
And I get turned up like the bottom of a bottle of syrup
First, your only opposition should be positioned to opt out
You got no shot, like Iguodala in the lockout
I drop style to make your brain quickly crumble to acid mix
Half of this shit ain't even a task, it's more an abacus
Of technique, when I bless beats, you'd think it's magic
But it's all about the years I spent and tactics for my practicing
Which doesn't come naturally to White and Jewish rappers, see
So now with every track I gets y'all buried like a daiquiri
Uh, they try to tell me, "Jay, you'd probably be best
If you cut out all the curses, spoke on good, and skipped the rest"
And though I do appreciate advice from fam and friends
You got me fucked if you think you know how I should self-express
Yes, I'm never looking for the press
Not because I can't obtain it, just because I'd hate the stress
And I still spit the darts that come shooting from the dark
And then get locked around your heart, call that cardiac arrest
I didn't choose the game, I just saw the light
Figured, "Hmm, my confidence could reach the tallest heights
If I could spit raw, edit 'til it's altered right
And then deliver out the science like I'm Walter White"
Plus I can talk that lit like I was Walter Whit--
Man, you want a rapper with no faulty script
And could make these other rappers nauseous sick
Well then, put that together and I'm all that shit

[Bridge]
Hold up, hold up, hold up
Yo Sa-Je
Let me get a Mic Check

[Verse 2]
They call me Internal, and I used to go by "Jay"
But call me "Dante" when I throw on this inferno
You can't step to me or even try to bring that bullshit
Of a sect to me, cause I ain't going infertile
Yeah, and I ain't all about the paper, mate
I'm about using papermates to give rappers I fatal fate
You claim you'll father me? Hmm, well this just ain't the day
Cause you and me related is more a cat in the cradle case
My style's fire man, I'm burning when I hit the mic
And you're just stuck on making matches like the fiddler's wife
I give a little bite, with riddles, I'm no simple type
My losing rate is like the republican fight for civil rights
Surely I could rap about a fat sack
But what fun is it to make my lyrics that whack?
My favorite genre tried to take a catnap
And in from the darkness crept these sad, babbling ass hats
I attack, yeah I'm here
Sat around too long, I got this idea
It's time to give these emcees high fear
Spitting raw, I'll start turning tables like I'm Ikea
Riding 'round my neighborhood in mom's beat up corolla
With a tube sock ego, taking sips of Pepsi-cola
Everyone beware I'm trying angles for these squares
X and O's get thrown in air like I'm a Playstation controller
I'm a part-time baller, full-time liar
With my hat turned around, rocking thrift shop attire
My hobby's chance, yeah it's thinner than a wire
Yet I still do it best, man, what more could you desire?
Y'all need to stop all this bullshit from revvin' up
Cause it's the fans tryna jam that'll set 'em up
But they're just watered-down assholes rapping
To me they're just anemones stuck in Eminem's enema

[Outro]
Yo sa-je, can I get a mic check?
Yo Miggs, can I get a mic check?
Sam Brown, can I get a mic check?
Quise? Prez? Can I get a mic check?
J.R., can I get a mic check?
T.Y., can I get a mic check?
AC Gang, can I get a mic check?
Name one line where I ain't burn this fucking mic yet

Can I get a mic check?
Can I get a mic check?
Can I get a mic check?
Name one line where I ain't burn this fucking mic yet