Show Lyrics

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

Verse 1 (manCHILD):
The black market, where blue blooded emcees split red seas since it started/
Where beyond gold and platinum is the target/
Rockin it with real skill leaves greenhorns green with envy/
And rappin about your cherry red Benz still seems empty/
Where blue collar rhyme sayers really mean what they be speakin/
And the cat you rhyme behindís not donned by yellow streaks and/
Every week at open mics we paint the clouds with silver lining/
Perfect rhymes canít be achieved, but every moment is defining/
On time to spray your mind with some surrealist imagery/
Plus feed 5000 emcees with a single simile/
I got a metaphor, like just introduced to quadruplets/
Most heads want more, so I expose them like a nudist/
Yo, youíre Alicia Silverstone type clueless to the fact/
That we bring El Shaddai to ciphers at points all across the map/
So black, take it to my chest, you know Iíll bring it back to you/
The black-market, be white hot, or leave here black and blueÖ

Underground is the sound of rebirth/
So my turf keeps me locked down with the Godsound under earth/
While Iím destined for the sky, Adonai is the target/
Still I canít escape the Black Market.

Verse 2 (Playdough):
Deep into the black record crack while Iím incognito/
Disguised for surprise dressed down in tuxedo/
With the mushpot, Christ and hip-hop Iím steady jugglin/
And bargainin the jargon in the Church where Iím smugglin my rhymes/
Thatís the crime so they label me a criminal/
Now people in the steeple gotta keep rap subliminal/
Or unseen and heard not a word to the pews/
They fear the ill tattoos, plus my check one twos/
Nevertheless I press, keeping raps righteous/
They wanna test my effervesce, cuz itís so effortless/
On metronomes, their fleet canít defeat my poem/
I circle the globe to make the whole world my home/
But cancel that, this is only the place I travel at/
So Iím wandering sound for holy ground habitat/
Where the rabbits at? Under the earth working my phono/
You searching for your crew while Iím flying Han Solo/

Hook x 2

Verse 3:
I call shots like a referee, fighting for your destiny/
Sound the reverie, settle the score like a refugee/
Selected pedigree when I rock so steadily/
And then burn the ideals of the world in effigy/
While me and Freddie B. are more underground than they could ever be/
Weíre reverently riding blue skies weíre seeing seldomly/
From pushing envelope with cross hairs and scope/
Locked onto the bullseye, so watch it as I pull my/
Hollow tipped scripts come equipped to spit darts/
Iíll take my shot in the dark, it ainít a walk in the park/
Finish to start, these cats are still jacking the art/
But me, I dominate the market thatís as black as their heart/
Inside the ventricles, I flip it around to make receptacles/
And fill with Mars ILL Harmonic is apostolic/
And intercede, so you no longer bleed the night/
Iím chasing shadows in sound battles, filling markets with lightÖ

Hook x 4