Текст: Mars Ill. Backbreakanomics. Sideline Speech.

(Verse #1, manchild)
I got these blind musicians watching me listen to their songs/
And I think they?re catching on there?s a chance that I might not belong/
They got it wrong behind the rabid barks for justice/
Where you can support the cause from where the movement never touches/
Dearly beloved, I can see the devastation so clearly/
And the night sky protects me when I?m running with the moon/
I wanna help the lepers, I just don?t want their sickness near me/
I guess if you can?t sing the song, you can try to hum the tune/
I got these dues I?m paying and I guess I?m almost even/
When I was stepping to the A.M., I could have sworn I caught ya?ll sleeping/
I rhyme for a reason beyond the regional limits that block them/
My double-sided tongue is sharp and it can?t be boxed in/
They?re caught between some rock/rap fusion garbage/
And a hard place to taste the truth and everybody makes do/
HEY YOU! Yeah, I?m sorry, you don?t get to play today/
But after my crew wins the game, you can soak the coach with Gatorade/
It?s safe to say you?re a ways away from the action/
Your image is imaginary and this song is love-tapping you on the shoulder/
And asking, ?Is this what you had planned??/
While I?m slapping ?em senseless, you can feel free to bystand?

(Hook)
Can?t really see from the cheap seats. Can?t hear unless you listen/
Can?t get on the field and play if you don?t got the right equipment/
Can?t hear what you?re saying unless you step up to the mic/
Wanna see life? Well this is what it looks like/
Can?t see from the cheap seats. Can?t hear unless you listen/
Can?t get on the field and play if you don?t got the right equipment/
Can?t hear what you?re saying unless you step up to the mic/
Wanna see life? Well this is what it sounds like?

(Verse #2, manchild)
Conspiracy theorist backpackers, you don?t have to run any faster/
The government?s not really after you, kiddo, you?re just a rapper/
But slave masters to exist, so point at them and wave your fist/
Media?s agenda becomes the mark on your head and plus your wrist/
This is just in case you doubted that Mars ILL was about it/
We linked with Bigg Justoleum for this public service announcement/
You are not your outfit or the car that you drive/
Commercials keep you needing what you don?t really need to survive/
You grow sedated, addicted to a lifestyle/
Planned parents become barren, juggling a choice and a child/
Of course it?s a trial to speak loud and walk straight/
I?ve found a voice is a terrible thing to waste/
Wake Up! Take up your cross-section of the populace and follow/
You?re not promised tomorrow/
So just move, move, we can?t stop speaking until they all know/
We?re not promised tomorrow?

(Hook)

(Verse #3, Bigg Jus)
Seminal mimicry trickery gloomy cavalry garrisons/
Who battle charlatans who love night targeting/
The faintest comparison imbalancement crucially embarrassing/
So woefully inadequate/
Staring at other rhyme ancient and tailored so massive/
Armchair quarterback chemical ali HAZMAT/
You?re just a little boy in a bubble with unrealistic dreams of a rap body double/
And rhyming as a meal-ticket/
That?s why this culture got you lovesick/
Born word eternal, life orbit, Keebler elf timing/
Couldn?t even flow on beat if the kick and snares were color coded/
With dreams of a new bullet-proof 7 all dubs and silvery/
But you lack any bass in your voice, cadence or delivery/
And there?s already been two Agatha Christie unsolved rapper murder mysteries/
Don?t let the sharks smell the bloody chum in the water/
And start a feeding frenzy/
Sometimes I feeling like I?m in an underground purgatory/
Trapped between materialistic playa gunfire/
And suburban nerdy voice, funny voice falsetto/
War prone with a howitzer patrolling the 33rd parallel rhyming no fly zones/
With homeland security all tainted and corrupted/
If you ain?t coming with that ?88 Daddy Kane R-A-W/
Like it was on the eve of destruction/
Trust me, don?t even touch it/
Or get left on the side of the road and circled by buzzards/
Or fossilized in some tar pit/
We call it craps now they be triple and doubling it/
Ever since Tupac?s style gave birth to quintuplets/
Biting is not a birthright, you starry eyed chipmunk/
Gazing in the 18-wheeler headlights, waiting for the collision/
Soccer-mommy waste of battle ammunition/
So younguns, we lop ?em off earlier than circumcision/
Stay hidden, Jiminy Crickets and all is forgiven/
This was craft worked at Dust?s crib/
Then manchild slid to haunted gorilla silver back mountain lion of Judah/
These bear paws hide zirconium claws made for pouncing/
Even though I don?t eat meat anymore/
It?s just order of selection prototype/
MC?s look tasty like melon, tofu and curry rice. Mmmmmm/
Succulent with the slightest hint of lime/
Way up in the nosebleed seats with torn ACL?s on the sidelines/
Coming rougher than one time with colorful things that go bump in the night/
And magical 180 reverse suplex clotheslines/
You need to slow down and think twice/
You ain?t a risk taker with the flow. You?re a risk taker with your life?

(Hook)