Show Lyrics

Mars ILL - Mona Lisa
(from the album Sound Methods 2.0)
© copyright 2003

Verse 1: Playdough
Heads rush and faces blush with the stroke of my brush/
While you was choking in clutch with every toke of the dutch/
My word was spoken in such mannerism milking the prism/
For some living colored talent/
Filling my palette with words and pastels/
You rent with the track tells/
Just to pupil learning lessons and blessing the Maxellís/
Itís like Iím Leonardo Divinc of quarter inch/
Just a starving artiste whoís at peace with stomach pinch/
So clenched his right hand, direct to the mic stand/
Spot the mediocre joker then clash like titans/
To find the cure Iím avoiding the last mile/
Man, your silly wack styles only worth a half smile/
Iíd burn it in graf style, make you respect my mural/
Then remember the name of Playdough, though your referral/
I probably won't receive Ďcause I cloak my sleeve/
Inside the plans of the carpenters hands/
What I believe is perceived as weakness/
Though they couldnít beat this/
I just cover mediocrity with strokes of neatness/
And I etch in the stone, my name next to some scriptures/
It's Playdough, my words worth a thousand pictures.

Verse 2: Jax
Imagine the time spent to make your bare perfect/
To comprehend, this rattle roll chest/
Leave myself though my many chrome brush/
A palette of words dust a canvas suburb/
More balance ease or tease the artist/
Whose heart is open for all to view/
With a track I lose track of all thought of space and time/
And visualize a rhyme to manifest/
Many a masterpiece remains are framed or ashamed/
To be living from the others on display/
Take a gaze at legendary status living unlavish, Jax/
Tears you'll sow, a missile blow, ricochet while gulls ration/
Unlucky receiver of bleeping speed knot/
Courtesy of the biggest rep/
Official response of original cons of concepts/
With in-depth type grip on how to do it correct/
As ill as the sound is how ill it really is/
Thoughts brought forth resemble only a few/
And far between is the amount of the whiffs from me to you.

Verse 3: Lil Sci
The black artist painting visual pictures through rhyme scriptures/
I write distinct ink styles, verbally capture images/
Yes, Iím an artist so donít try to tell me how to paint my picture/
Iím hip-hop results in the streets like violence and malt liquor/
My few points stay outtellectual of course/
Share my thoughts with those that are lost/
Searching for dignity, I vibe like A as ubiquity/
Iím Stevie wonder lyrically/
Y'all still trying to figure me like ancient Egyptian mysteries/
Hmmmmmm hip to the hop, donít to the stop/
So whys radio playing all this nonsense around the clock/
(Who knows?) I suppose itís the negative verse positive balance/
Challenging the masses, putting image before talent/
Yeah, thatís why you never see my face on the cover/
Scienz of life by child discovered the art of living/
Pictures I paint now are stories for my grandchildren/
So my empire never stops building, cant you see it.

verse 4 - manCHILD
It ain't no joke, id like to choke this world to die in perfect harmony/
But Iíll start, do my part for the art to educate my colony/
Come follow my odyssey, its entertaining, I swear solemnly/
You can stare into my oddities, you can shutter at the thought of me/
The thought of y'all collectively keeps me up most nights in a cold sweat/
Bite my tongue at times since inside it holds death/
Strike a delicate balance between solitude and challenge/
Raw skill and developed talent, a gentle hand and sharp talons/
While poverty plays the lottery and gambles with lives of people/
Wins and losses are correctly identified as necessary evils/
Agnostics paint themselves in the blood of the prophets/
Falling in love with the darkness with a plot to steal the dawn/
And Iíll slash this canvas camp off fall victim to cash advances/
Set myself in battle stances take my chances in Atlantis/
Where my artistry dwells, somewhere between heaven and hell/
In-between subliminal street sounds and critical beat downs/
Iím one of the few who follows through with intimidation/
When I spit its like Iím letting heads in on inside information/
When Iím long gone this world will recognize my accomplishments/
How I sit at home and draft these blessed memos to my congressmen/
Begin with raw material, paint moral and average model/
Craving generic works of art with my heart for you tomorrow/
My pen strokes express life and death, poetry and rhythm/
Grip the mic so tight that iím developing carpal tunnel syndrome/
And honestly, I prefer to create my masterpieces sonically/
Crush hard rocks with my voice box, but I guess thatís just the God in me/
Probably, they release my anthology/
All apologies for my broken rotary phone-I just donít hear destiny callin me/
So for now, these 4 move forward to mic mastery/
Some day display my book of rhyme pages up in your gallery/
Playdough, Jax, Sci, manCHILD a spoken masterpiece/
And someday, display this Mona Lisa in your gallery.