Boy Genius

Date, February 10th, 1989, 5:35 AM

A young man sits in his room

Working on a formula to the perfect rap

As he punches the final program

He is labeled as the boy genius

Hold the microphone with an uzi grip

The rhymes are the ammo and the brain is the clip

'Cause I'm smarter than a microchip, and the mic don't slip

When I strike your lip on the psycho tip

I know game, so don't try to base

All my stakes, strokes of genius, so I'll never erase

It's a show and prove, not a show and tell

And I'ma show thrill, any no frill

Hold a punk emcee heavy to a feather weight

While I lounge, because I've had the wait

The perfect place, the perfect time, and me, I get spectacular

The microphone will cross all those

Who are bitin' the rhymes like Dracula, uh-huh

Some say we bit, some say we munch

Because the Major hold Posse look like the Brady Bunch

Because the black that took the rap has now returned

For mic was mine, you felt the rhythm, and now you learn

'Cause I'm the Kwam, capital K, rap it all day

I let the pause button go, and I slap it on play

As the night goes on, so does this invincible ego attempt

To conduct the first rap single

With assisting of the slickest lyrics ever known to mankind

With drum machine carefully made into a digital sampler

He grows closer and closer to his goal

How many breaks have been used? Have used? Misused?

How many clues?  I'm still confused

Nine times outta ten I find times that win

I hit my radio, I hear the same beats again and again

When will it end?  Don't mean to cause friction

They say that I talk in a contradiction

Though I hook up a break now and then, know they unreliable

I compose, revise, the micro, recycle

Metamorphosis, I better offer this

Challenge to anyone who tries to come off of this

So twiddily, diddily, from Harlem to Italy

Rap, you in the little league, intrigue a melody

Compose and those so called intros impose

And close points which I gather and I mean this

Lay back, boy, 'cause I'm the boy genius

After his mother demands, "Lights out"

Kwamé is forced to work in total darkness

Is this the end of the new beginning?

Or will he receive a beatdown?

Peace, for myself, the Lord Master

Islam is my belief and I'ma blast my

Life into orbit, just like a satellite

Forfeit, get off it, 'cause I'm the man that'll bite

Rhymes spark your brain cells, entertain it

Pain swells, make a rubric look like Charlie's Angels

Take your Mic Minerals, hip hop vitamins

Bring a lot of men, it be a riot when

Brother, try again

I bought your grammar, my rhymes are torture

The irana, demo, corture

Red handed, can't stand it, you planned it, rhyme bandit

Beat your fandit, shut up, can it

Four, three, two, one, the Kwam is on

Only book that I need is the Holy Quran

So I can manifest and address

Politics that make my wallet stick out of my pocket, thick

That's why I'm talkin' slick, so

Yo, does anyone know why I rap slick?

'Cause I'm takin' the microphone

And rubbin' my lips like Chapstick

So I can demonstrate that I'm a hip hop fiend

Mic is too rule to cool like Idi Amin

Stand strong as a general, no sucker can stop me

With the straight to Gaddafi, where my cousin named Shaffi

After successfully completing the last verse

I wonder, was the rap world ready, ready for this?

This form of music?

A hip hop is aware of the dopeness

The hypeness, the super def dookiness

Kwamé is such a man, a man known to the music industry

As a member of the invincibles

Kwamé, the Boy Genius