I wonder how many rappers are stuck in my boat
Bump behind the mic but never get to do a live show
There ain't nobody I know, connections aren't my for-
-te, I'm better settled on my own off in a rhyme flow
Try me, but I don’t figure kids’ll pick and buy me
Cuz I’m the, frikkin antithesis of their minds’ speech rhyming
I might be antisocial or afflicted by anxiety
So I’ma be the guy you see who’s hiding while he rides the beat
I'm heading to death by the beating metronome
And I’m seeing folks but they’re just like whatever though
…Give it a sec or I bet you’ll never know
that I'm stealing shows like hotel guests steal scented soap, the freshest vocals
...I'm kicking bitches where their nuts are
ripping this rhythm to bits and spitting this as just bars
...I don't hustle out my trunk, I say fuck cars
Matt’s in my Batmobile and I’m running over punks parked, yup
...And while I'm committing these traffic offenses
...my Giminey cricket is beating me senseless
...cuz people are people regardless of friend lists
...And these people could be with me marching within this
I'm hung up on this plot point that's leaving me
Seriously, how are people reaching streets so easily?
They seem to be so deep in mystique, like they don’t need the heat
When teamed up with a demon sleeping seeding with machinery
A robot, ain't nobody know but
From the way I wrote this poem I'm a flow-bot
Bolted head to toe, so mechanical and chrome
pop and locking with the rhythm as I spit it cuz it goes hard
I'm all about my focus, not too many know this
Making lots of music but I’m not getting exposure
every bar is carnage but I'm killing it with ghost hits
I just really suck at networking with these folks
So I think I need a street team but ain’t no one believe me
Actually they're asking if I'm bout to be on TV
playing on the radio over and over repeat
Cuz no one seems to know what it takes to open the scene, see
These streets are in need of a fucking knuckle sandwich
Of ampage, cranking up the cans, doing damage
To banish, bands who’re satiated cuz I’m famished
I’m hungry as a mufucka, brandishing my jams hits
And I love my fan lists, all my likes and followers
All the mice and all the nerds who rock reciting all the words
“Sauce you’d better calm your nerves, ain’t too many on your verse”
I scoff at that, they’re awesome and they’re all I need for all that’s heard
Word…but I do wish a couple more’d follow
…Cuz if you come inside my walls it’s hollow
…But I’ve exhausted every option I know
…And still I’m lost within this Sauce bravado
That’s so unfounded, how could I have found its
Loudness so empowering, dousing hits in brown shit
I’m on that mouse tip, I’ll never leave your house if
I come up from the Underground and sound is allowed in
But I’m not that guy who’s crying “listen to my mixtape!!”
Yeah my shit’s great, but I ain’t in this gig to get paid
I do appreciate all listens when my hit’s played
But let me say that I do realize my spit is way insane
It's obvious that odd is what I wanna be
Caught between the honesty and gall of an uncommon freak
Calling me an oddity is not about to startle me
Cuz I'm about to pop open my pop cult, so follow me, it's all I breathe
…and yall can call me Tisse