Show Lyrics

Mars ILL - Compound Fractures
(from the album Raw Material)
© copyright Uprok Records/Sphere of Hip Hop Records/Mars ILL

Verse 1: (sintaxtheterrific)
I’m a patriarch b-boy breaking bones in the park/
After dark, my blows like body rock the beat within your heart/
I’ve been sent to set apart, make the swift leg lame/
Touch my hand to your hip to cripple physical frames/
I’m braining body handicapping snapping judgment just the same/
Entertain to leave ya’ll limping pimping strut with a cane/
The pain is incidental pencil spit in sentence fragments/
Character gets crushed like catching hands in kitchen cabinets/
Be breaking bad habits, turn the table on them/
Manufacture compound fractures with the stroke of my pen/
Sintax has spoken to men (kid gets me open within)/
I leave you broken like Ken Swift doing cranial spins/
Soul bend and break men sending bones through the skin/
When words are fresh I’m ripping flesh, paper sheets or melanin/
I tend to pop limbs out of joint with the points I make/
Your soul’s without control like overweights on roller skates/
Correct mistakes, Sintax deflates fake over-inflated egos/
On beaches in Brazil screaming, “Just Say No To Speedos!!”
In suburbs telling white kids they look stupid wearing corn rows/
In Hugh Hefner’s mansion tape recording over pornos/
There’s hurt before the healing and wreck before the rescue/
Dirt before the cleansing and dark before the view/
Wrong before redemption, hip-hop to break your neck/
Cuz God gives us life to live once we got no life left…

Hook

Verse 2: (manCHILD)
Mind, body and soul heir squares off in circles/
Tear kicks and snares to pieces and shreds while breaking bread/
Bred to break you, no mistake dude, take 2 fake crews/
Deepspace you to your face too, like an earthquake when I make moves/
Leave you naked like He made you to longer hide things/
Masked as bright schemed politics from the left or the right wing/
Spiked words do the right thing, lust for chicks in tight jeans/
But it’s all obviously faker than a Van Damme fight scene/
Your mind’s a white screen, the underworld’s projecting pipe dreams/
Wise mic fiends contact you with bone cracking fractures/
Sintaxtheterrific spits rage amaze-on/
Just to warn you cool cats the thin ice that you skate on/
Levels dangerous like radon, laced with syntactical blows/
Expose heads like photos to Jehovah, broken at His feet/
Rock hard like concrete to glorify the Most High?
Regardless, I rip flawlessly raw like e-coli/
I’ve been told I ran wild, but still my die hard fans smile/
For that drop-you-where-you-stand style, soul heir the manCHILD
I AM stands miles above the current lifestyle that you’ve chosen/
Sounds ill but you’ll be whole once you’re broken…