Testo Saki

They came from nowhere. They were emcees. They was DJs. They was graff writers. They was hip hop

Yo, whether it’s
Production, mic ripping, rocking cuts, or mixing
If this shit is broke, then Akrobatik’s for the fixing
Cats is lazy like twisting weed with seeds and sticks in
Once the beat’s kicks in, you know the top picks in (What?)
But I ain’t wearing nobody’s suit on Draft Day Catch me in some Timbs as I stomp through the pathway
And when you hit me with the jersey (Say what?), make sure it says
“Akrobatik MC Number One,” because I’m Worthy (What, what, what?)
Yo, I’ll rip the mic absurdly, son
My existence is a worldly one. I’m cosmopolitan
Reach inside your wallets and support the cause
Of these rebels without a pause whose lyrics crack jaws
Step back, pause, analyze the scene. No verbal
Drop kicks and multi-level optics that’s keen
Glaring through any transparent scheme without an x-ray
Enlighten entire nations, do it again the next day
My text play an integral part of your awakening
Shaking in your lungs ‘cause y’all just a bunch of pseudo thugs
So while you do your drugs that make you believe you hard
I’ll rip mics with squads that represent God (What?)
Haha! Saki. L.I.F.E. Long, Breez Evahflowin’, Akrobatik Detonate that like: yo. Check it. Yo. (Haha). Yo. (Haha). Yo. Yo

This Queens
Buddha merchant walks with drunken monk crane steps
On Detonator Recs. Make my way on
Force through Air similar to my man based in Kunsan
Beats us on hot, chop, toke, choke, then bath
Through smoke clouds in studio bong fires. I’ll be the wick
To your bomb, that explosive live wire. Stronghold
Akrobatik, we ichiban. Our props earned
Kihontekini. We from NY to the B-oston city
L.I.F.E. Long, Breez Evahflowin’ clutching chromes
With a five-handed fisticuff grip (Haha. Stronghold),
Sound off, echo
Across globes [?], crank this rap to crank
Levels to increase the head bop, use fingertips to adjust
Static’s musical renditions of hip hop
We stay on our job
Battle before dodging weak blows, survive alone
Off the flesh of foes, “Hok2” words out. My bobbing
And weaving leaving cats stuck, swinging nunchucks
The slim samurai releases throwing stars and flames
At accurate range at your stage, shutting down your sound
[?] in Bean Town

I think they know what we mean now. Huh. “So, what would you like with that? Some Saki?” Yes. It is good for my head. It will make me feel good. Pass that shit

I’m afraid so
He’s back again. Rappers lay low like
I tackled their toe, flipped their frame ‘round. Ill cats
None spat the same sound. I came to town
Through the harbor (What?), astounded by the drama I seen
Either color. I’m the service of fiends. This unclean
Uncut—what?!? As if I ain’t dipping my stash, I got
This bad beat whipping my ass. Present it with mad
Rhythm and class, so pass the seamstress site
When it comes to dropping lines this tight, aight? Light the first
Dutch, spit at your chest, watch it go burst, bust, then
Pull at your heart like thoughts of your first crush
It’s us against you, surface dweller. Strike your peanut
With the trident of the submariner. The prince of
The sea since I’ma be on this scene
For a minute ‘til this rap shit finish. Stronghold
In the Lord’s most beautiful image. Scrimmages suck
Set it up at your show, dodo. Step to super niggas
Like Lobo every show we bless
We got the Stronghold, woah, or strong O.B.S
You know me as the B, the R, the E, the E, the Z, N

Dedicated to my brother L.I.F.E. Long. Yes. Because now my head feels good. And I will continue to rock until...