Blake Wesley

So(ul) Amazin' (steel Blazin')

Verse 1:
Yo, the soul provider
got a lot on the skillet
grillin' it hard boiled, charcoal fillin' the dark
villain
And the light skinded niggas disguised.
My mind's sickening,
define vicious written in rhymes
times 10 it.
To describe how my line's ending.
Your fine imprint,
scribe through your mind's index.
My line chin-checks and shine through you blind
existance.
The sun syndicate.
Fattest Biggie with no Pun intended.
(No pun intended to live)
I pick up where we slid and run illest,
'til I buckle and become winded,
And all the air from out my lungs slips into the sky
like weed smoke.
My peoples need hope, and I'm the one with it; the soul
provider.
Cold as fire, hot as ice.
Rock the mic 'til I retire die the son of Christ.
Becoming one with life, to live like death is
uncertain.
One curtain left,
and I'ma die with my gun bursting.
Son cursing 'til I must become one with the Earth.
Heaven and hell I conquer which ever comes first.
Know to rebel.
My soul a la mode
(uh, say it again) my soul a la mode
(a la mode)
The soul provider...
(Chorus)
Verse 2:
Sacred living.
Sinning like you can't forgive him.
Suspending time with my time spent rhyming about
nonsense,
like saving religion.
Drink sipping letting my mind spin.
Thinking about my mom and pops, how they designed this
nigga,
mix of Al Green and 'Pac
Rock the soul tracks rapping about surviving on the
block.
Black top, Asphalt talk, walking through the fire like
a soul provider.
Poppa made a dope rhymer,
I'm a ghetto nigga sipping liquor in pajamas.
Not old enough to rock clubs, but still do.
Will soul provide I gotta ill crew.
(yes)
And best believe they with me in the city like sex.
Metropolitan connects, plus the Steel crew still do
dirt.
Baggy jeans and my ill blue shirt.
Feeling fresh, yes.
While Ex queue the keys, I'ma ease through your soul
like you're blowing trees.
Best believe the soul provider
(Chorus)
Verse 3:
Yo, I flow krypton
knock your superman off his feet with his kicks on.
Niggas keep my shit on repeat.
And no matter which song I get on,
I shit on beats, pull out my dick and take a piss on
trees,
I'm raw dogging it, look.
My rhyme lines flow sweeter than swine,
so any mic that I find, I got the right to be hogging
Talking shit, loud mouth, wilding out starting it.
Alcoholic slaughtering my vocab department.
So pardon if my talking is slurred.
Pants sagging, hands grabbing on my nuts, clutch
sparking my herb.
Relaxed lingo
Beef low, ghetto as black bingo.
Redefine the the line of rap singles.
The soul provider,
hold the mic and open fire.
Drop my nuts, I give a fuck about a pro hire.
The new Pete and C.L. was Exile and B-L.
We bang jeeps to break beats, blaze trees and females.
You ain't me.
Its the S-0, U-L pro-vide your mind with a west coast
soul vibe.
Uh, its the S-O, U-L pro-vide your mind with a west
coast soul vibe.