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Microphone

from Swordplay by Baba Brinkman

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lyrics

This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microscope
It’s like a slideshow of my whole life up close
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microwave
Ultraviolet blazes inside this cave
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microchip
A device to flip memory bites through my lips
It’s nothin’ but a mic, though, when I go home
It’s the cyclone life of the microphone

This mic dangles loose at the end of a black chord
Like a hangman’s noose in front of the dance floor
Each night paying dues I stand on a trap door
And I’d like to thank the muse at the plentiful rap source
‘Cause my slang and language use is gonna pass the course
So crank the juice and let the energy blast forth
I’m gonna be forced to take advantage of this amplification
To state my plans for this planet’s emancipation
I understand if you're wastin’ away, waitin’ for the chance to take an
Extended vacation, spendin’ your pay-cheque
Straight spinnin’ in place in a panic, anticipatin’
The end of creation; man, I’ve been in that state and
I’ve managed the transformation to a standing ovation
With this mic in my hand facin’ crowds of people, just trustin’
That we can work out beef with nothin’ but speech and percussion
Just peaceful discussion and powerful beat production

This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microscope
It’s like a slideshow of my whole life up close
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microwave
Ultraviolet blazes inside this cave
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microchip
A device to flip memory bites through my lips
It’s nothin’ but a mic, though, when I go home
It’s the cyclone life of the microphone

Weak speakers crack when this mic feeds back
Screeches travel through the tweeters jacked up with each pass
And when people react to these unique speech acts
It creates an equally fast species of feedback
I need that positive twist to write these raps
The props that I get increase my peak capacity
And my abilities increase the props that I get
It’s a simple and deep fact of cause and effect
When the tree sap’s runnin’, I ain’t stoppin’ for breath
The only problem is stress and system overload
If they’re not given proper rest microphones can blow
The equipment connected; it’s a risk the poet knows
And I’ve got to accept it when I’m kickin’ my poems
Most are written at home, long before they enter the light
Hand printed and typed songs invented at night
That eventually might get launched into the mic

This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microscope
It’s like a slideshow of my whole life up close
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microwave
Ultraviolet blazes inside this cave
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microchip
A device to flip memory bites through my lips
It’s nothin’ but a mic, though, when I go home
It’s the cyclone life of the microphone

I used to suffer ‘mic lust’, and drool when I saw them
But when I touched and tried to bust, I knew I was rotten
So I withdrew from performin’ and kept writin’ new songs
Not the type to rush to rock a mic tattoo on my arm
Now I finally feel like I’m just movin’ along
With no excuses or those wrong-headed abuses of charm
That people use to get on stage, replacin’ the real
Relationships built with microphones based on skill
It’s more than just the taste of a meal that makes it appeal
It’s more than just the shape or the face on the bill
That dictates its place in the till or the amount of it
Beware of counterfeit poets at shows who don’t know how to spit
The mic proudly sits above MCs’ debates
Power-trips and picks out victims like the Three Fates
But the system predates the green age of the icon
In days bygone poets rhymed without mics on

This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microscope
It’s like a slideshow of my whole life up close
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microwave
Ultraviolet blazes inside this cave
This ain’t a microphone; it’s a microchip
A device to flip memory bites through my lips
It’s nothin’ but a mic, though, when I go home
It’s the cyclone life of the microphone

credits

from Swordplay, released April 20, 2004

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Baba Brinkman New York, New York

Science rapper and inventor of several novel hip-hop variants. Canadian transplant to New York. Pathological optimist.

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