Late night, me and metro on the case like,
vinyl by the crate, saw waves like a great white.
Get hype - kick, snare, ride, bass line.
Now the beat's perfect and turned up to say rhymes,
but the beat's cursed and just bursts out the main wire
to the speakers. Now the beat has gone freakin' haywire!
It starts to zoom itself right out of the room and
then balloons even further when we try to EQ it.
Aw naw. By then it's long gone,
this King Kong song with a mean jaw bone
that can swallow all other beats, drums and bars whole
by the car load, and who the hell am I to argue
with a deadly hella mental instrumental monster
sprinting out of Hawthorne, headed straight to Compton
to cop the new Kendrick LP 12 inch and then chomp in,
and move on the to the rest of the top ten? But it stopped then.

It said

I 'm feelin so mellow mellow, mellow, mellow.
I just want to get high and live my life.
And I’ll be feelin mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow,
but I gotta survive to live my life.

But then what happened next, it got distracted
and ate a whole batch of jazz samples.
Shit was disastrous; it started burping high
hats and clarinets and tearing into garages,
fearing not a soul, straight plucking up drum kits
to feel it bump-bump from its tongue to its stomach,
stumbling to shovel in the coveted thumpers,
drunk off Dres, Yeezeys and Boi 1ndas.
But now it craved some more out of the way shit,
and ate up my J Dilla Spotify playlist.
I was like, “Metro, yo we gotta contain this!
Brain this motherfucker with an 808 face-lift!
We hit the freak with the frequencies
that frequently been seen to weaken fiends,
and beat the beat, deleting it piece by piece,
but as it died, I heard the beast speak to me.

It said

I 'm feelin so mellow mellow, mellow, mellow.
I just want to get high and live my life,
And I’ll be feelin mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow,
but I gotta survive to live my life.

No option to run. I’m poppin' your drums,
and gnawin' every low-end drop in the club,
or maybe a little bit of synthesizers.
Cha-Chop em up with some Ginsu knives and,
excuse me while I eschew small talk and
just chew raw rap tomes til my jaw lock.
Ah, screw it. I’ll just get a feeding tube.
Slurp a meaty loop up with my evening soup,
'n' eat up more emcees than king Rakim.
Your puny human arms are too short. You can’t box with
the hardcore songnavore. Better have some noms for'm.
Bar gorged before a b-boy can touch cardboard,
and if you ever try and stop me,
I’ll bite your vocal chain and make a darn good carbon copy,
and start rocking all your shows, so oh,
the old you and Metro gotta go, like, pronto.
New Spesh? He’s blowin' up so hot, yo.
They love that “No Saints” and that “Wet Brain” I flow,
but the one they really dig is a hook that I wrote,
where the music gets low and then I go..

I 'm feelin so mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow.