Class in session—kick drum chalk, snare line talk, we edutain the block with every drop. ��
Temple lights on; peace, love, unity, safely havin’ fun—let the culture lead the plot. ��[Verse] �
Rap is what we do, but hip‑hop’s how we live—so the rhythm’s a responsibility, not a prop. ��
I turn pain into palette—canvas is the cadence; brushstrokes in the pocket never stop. ��
Sixteenth grids with triplet slurs, I teach timing like a lab where the metronomes talk. ��
Temple in the tempo, archives in the rhyme—preserve the craft while we still evolve the walk. ��
Knowledge of self in the verse—mirror made of bars, reflection sharpened when the doubts knock. ��
I make the hook a homeroom, verses the curriculum, bridges where communities cross. ��
Turn the booth to a lecture hall, but the homework’s healing—every take pays trauma’s cost. ��
Low‑register sermon, high‑minded service—sub‑bass hum with the conscience embossed. ��
No gimmicks in the lesson plan—just truth with rhythm, and rhythm that never gets lost. ��
I cite the elders, then cite the streets—Temple practices in every couplet tossed. ��
Pain paints paintings, yes—but I frame them in measures so the healing’s not glossed. ��
Call it edutainment: make the knowledge knock, let the melody carry the cause. ��
When the snare snaps, it underlines a thesis; when the kick lands, it closes the clause. ��
If rhythm is a right, then silence is a choice—we fill it with voices that lift and applaud. ��
Every bar a rung on the ladder out the pain—climb, breathe, plant seeds in the sod. ��
Every show a study group—cipher turns to council when the truth gets broad. ��[Chorus] �
Pain paints paintings, but music primes the canvas—let the colors dry inside the drum. ��
Edutain the city—teach with groove, learn with love, let the chorus make us one. ��
Temple of the tempo—culture in the practice, purpose in the run. ��
If you hear the lesson, pass it forward—class ain’t over when the song is done. ��[Verse] �
I learned to breathe inside the bar lines—micro‑timing shifts that move a thousand tons. ��
Tears turned tint, scars turned shapes—I mix the pigments with the pulse of the drums. ��
Curriculum of courage: cite your sources—ancestors, neighborhoods, mentors, and mums. ��
The Temple’s mission in my diction—preserve, archive, school, society in the hums. ��
Not a playlist trick, this is praxis—knowledge woven tight like heads on the ones. ��
When the bassline shoulders weight, the hook becomes a hand that helps you run. ��
Pain paints paintings, so I hang them where the youth can see a rising sun. ��
I’m grading on growth—effort over ego—pass is progress, fail is only undone. ��
Cadence is a compass; every pivot points to peace, beyond the push and the shove. ��
Unity in practice, fun in safety—culture as a lighthouse when the weather goes rough. ��
I loop the lesson, never lecture—call and response is how the wisdom stays tough. ��
Triplets to straight, halftime to race—dynamic shifts that carry what’s heavy
