Counterpoint

Yeah, the Flying Dutchmen, kid
The ghost ship risin'
And the storm cloud climbin', yeah
Flying Dutchmen, shit you never heard before
MCs ain’t got the nerve to brawl, it’s L Star
Foul weather, something you ain’t heard before
MCs ain’t half as raw, it’s Jon Murdock
The Flying Dutchmen, shit you never heard before
MCs ain’t got the nerve to brawl, it’s L Star
Foul weather, something you ain’t heard before
MCs ain’t half as raw, it’s Jon Murdock
Rihanna’s umbrella was under the weather
You ever stomped the yard hard, you get shot in your pleather
Same fella, same feather, best flock together
Get knocked by the cops, sit in the box together
Fool’s gold pirate meltdown in two karats
Red dragon, Hannibal came tonight, a true savage
True bastards, spit 'em in a compost heap
Dutchmen crush men, roll 'em in a fanto leaf
I need guns and all, razors and shanks, blood and chocolate
Brain from a bomb bitch and a dutch to spark shit
Semi spit awkward, shatter glass jewels like statues
My rap boosts, the high energy content is natural
Counterpoint, harmonic frequency through the aperture
Of still meshed mics completely seep into the passenger
Previewing the massacre, plan a terror grind house
Tarantino premiere through these speakers, let me find out
Death proves Kill Bill, pulp fiction, needles stick him
With the Doap Nixon flow, different, no trippin'
Sandman sleep in a requiem for a dream
A nightmare in the state, prepped until you sink
Flying Dutchmen, something you ain’t heard before
MCs don’t got the nerve to brawl, it’s Jon Murdock
Foul weather, something you ain’t heard before
MCs ain’t even half as raw, it’s L Star
Flying Dutchmen, something you ain’t heard before
MCs don’t got the nerve to brawl, it’s Jon Murdock
Foul weather, something you ain’t heard before
MCs ain’t even half as raw, it’s L Star
MCs is bitch-made, knew that since sixth grade
Caesar cut afro, samurai with a fade
Like Samuel L, Jeff fell back with a blade
Side step Jon 'Deck, straight razor a lame
Sleep never, Oxycontin pop, Heath Ledger
Overdose on Monogins, you know the seat cheddar
Hard body, had to saw off the long shotty
B-Real on a two inch reel, they call me Johnny
Be good, Michael Fox on the stage
Speaker kick, steam a spliff, live my life in a daze
Jon hones with rhyme poems, wonderland with the summer jam
Gun in hand, run it fam, move like the Son of Sam
merciless, David Berkowitz with the verse I spit
.44 cal, pow, murder you permanent
Men panickin', once I’m on and I’m smashin' 'em
Amount to fuck bitches like Jen Aniston
Roll with bitches, pop E, roll with bitches
Lined up, dick hard start from pole position
My flow position in the vocal booth alone is viscous
Its own existence, stand alone, zone to listeners
My mic device is mighty trife just like Heidi Fleiss
Mike Tys on the track when I write
Flying Dutchmen, shit you never heard before
MCs ain’t got the nerve to brawl, it’s L Star
Foul weather, something you ain’t heard before
MCs ain’t half as raw, it’s Jon Murdock
The Flying Dutchmen, shit you never heard before
MCs ain’t got the nerve to brawl, it’s L Star
Foul weather, something you ain’t heard before
MCs ain’t half as raw, it’s Jon Murdock