7X3=21:
Age 10, that’s when the training begins
The brain and the pen blend for the chain of events
I aim for the fence, tense, been the same every since
Seen people get aligned with what they claim their against
Pressure condensed, known to get blown into bits
I’m known for my wits, prone to get deep as it gets
Beneath the styx, mixed with the cheapest of tricks
Relief is a myth, so back to the beat for my fix
Force Feeld:
Coming up in the late eighties, I was digging in the crates crazy
And rap was the best outlet for my creative craving
Music played in rotation daily
With hot vocals poured on the top, like great tasting gravy
Rappers stay afraid to face me
Although I'm old-aged and married today, with great taste in ladies
I'm like Reverend Run with great spaced laces
You'll get first served on a case to case basis
7X3=21:
Make statements, then take actions matched with the language
My style is the strangest thing not even god could explain it
Time couldn’t tame it, hidden in the pictures I painted
A description, detailed image with inscription from Kemet
Read it, adjust my limits, then I BECAME IT
Magical ain’t it, the use of Top Choice cadence
And with Force by my side, skills are essential
Complex or simple, got styles for whatever you’re into it
Force Feeld:
We got many styles compiled, like an indoor mall crowd
Standing in single file, for awhile
Think of a long corridor or aisle, for a mile
Then imagine more and more, picture forty-four miles
Of rap evaluation, statistical evidence
From math calculation and critical measurement
Breaking boundaries, keeping inspiration 'round me
A big Bob Marley spliff, or a plate of Jamaican brownies
7X3=21:
Back forth with Force, get our point across
And spin a tale, tooth and nail before the coin get tossed
No time for chance, getting lost in minor flaws
Mine or yours, no telling the effect it cause
Lines are crossed, signs of the times exhaust
Chaos, sampled from a vinyl source
The final boss better have a taste for loss
When facing off, focused like a racing horse
With pace like Porsche, known to leave the pavement scorched
A game of sorts, speaking figurative of course
This god’s not norse, more the god particle type
An author, I write, for the better part of my life
Unite with the ‘Noble Knight’ to keep the ‘Scripture’ tight
Claimed ‘Survival’ on arrival to the mic device…’Alright’
I gel with pen, blend like hell with sin
Tell a friend, ‘Sing a Hymn’, and watch for the tale-spin
Force Feeld:
Tales make your right eyebrow curl
You’d be really surprised at times, it’s a foul wild world
Liars in positions of power desire the ball
Send it spiraling out of control, bye to the ball
As story tales circle or spin they whirlwind
Real life breezes you by, it’s like real wind
Heads turning, so many different correct versions
Differences affect real friends and ex-girlfriends
The next tale spin's about as close y’all get
To another old drama flick or a soap opera script
You got stats, nearly based upon false facts
And conspiracy theories, clearly way beyond off track
And the pressure makes you usually draw back
To juice and cognac as a solution to solve that
Then you fall back, if truth is proof, it’s hard to tell when
It’s the real thing or is it chameleon, caught up in a tailspin
