Song: C.Y.A.
Artist: Rationale aka James Crawford
Album: Metaphysiks
Year: 2003



(chorus)
Irrationally runnin your trap/
Isn't too smart like fast moves with someone's gun to ya back/
Or talkin big and gettin dumb with your rap/
Without havin a single thought to maybe cover your ass?/
Hmm, that's unwise, this young buck will leave ya tongue tied/
Dumb struck, hung high, roughed up, so come try/
I'll show you what's up one time/
You get, fucked up and left out to sun dry!

(verse one)
Sensically I'm outrageous/
My words impact, like the close-range blast from two sawed-off twelve gauges/
Hellacious, I fervidly build to success/
Cause I come from a fam that thrives from overkill and excess/
Too ill to suppress, yo, I rap from the heart/
My passion is strong enough to rip shackles apart/
Now the massacre starts, I warn you before I wreck it/
These aren't rap styles, man, they're torture methods/
I'm forced to set it, chastise and admonish/
Cause rockin it's what most emcees don't actualize and accomplish/
And so I've come to bomb it (these cats are fuckin waq)/
They're leavin me astonished like (what the fuck was that?)/
When I construct a rap I intend to speak to the planet/
So even your parents can follow me and understand it/
I'm leavin rappers damaged, mind and pride, givin em scars/
They tuck their tails and run like the bitches they are/
My style's too shitty and raw for the mainstream/
I'd rather stay underground sicker than gangrene/
And remain mean towards chumps who are gassed up like Exxon/
And for the talent's that continually slept on/
Let's press on, grab hold of this mic and rap so/
Lyin sons of bitches see that they're just stupid assholes/
And they'll get played like Hasbro, I'm scaldin ya/
I rain fire like a tragic day at LaGuardia/
I'll slaughter ya, cynical, lyrical partisan/
I'll call you competition for the sake of argument/
Highly skilled verbal artisan, master craftsman/
Rap assassin with a spastic accent/
On tap for action (a nasty trashman), go ahead and initiate/
This lyrical heavyweight would be happy to set it straight/
You fairy featherweight, father-fuckin, frontin fag/
I'll string your ass up and use you as a punchin bag

(chorus)

(verse two)
I'm not playin games, I'm spraying flames/
Kickin myself some synthetic ass and takin names/
Brainin lames, I grab the mic, I drop anvils/
You're garbage, I'll bury your ass in a landfill/
This man's ill, primal killer whose lines are iller/
Than most rappers cause their shit is just rhymes and filler/
And mine'll drill ya, the epitome of mental agony/
I run these cyphers like a military academy/
Emphatically, sometimes I go beyond serious/
Self-righteous, eccentric, but not delirious/
I'm a lyricist that keeps it all professional/
Able to make huge points outta the smallest decimal/
Soldier and general, prone, armed to the teeth/
One-man hip-hop army, bombin emcees/
You don't want it with me, you will look so gay and frilly/
That even your mom'll say, "Well he's more of an acquaintance really"/
Humiliating sissies with songs or a battle/
Knock them off their high horse along with the saddle/
So get on a skedaddle, there's no debating it left/
Even mentionin waq emcees is wasting my breath/
I'd rather raise and progress, and keep it moving like a freeway/
With more raw cuts than the USDA/
You think it's chisme (what!?) What!? (fuck you) You scoff my lines?/
(son, you must've lost your goddamn mind)/
When I'm droppin rhymes there's no extenuation/
Only blunt desecration, zero speculation/
Little hesitation, I come through checkin sets/
And keep my flow raw, like unprotected sex/
Who's next to flex, shit, you had better watch it/
I will fuck it up, and fuck you up in the process/
And you can mock it all you want, hell, get pissed at me/
But until you show and prove, your trash means shit to me