Lyrical Breakdown of Massage Seats - Instrumental - A Journey through Words and Rhymes

Welcome to the detailed analysis of "Massage Seats - Instrumental" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.

• Lyric Overview: Witness how Freddie Gibbs & Madlib weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "Massage Seats - Instrumental" is a testament to masterful songwriting.
• Rhyme and Rhythm Analysis: Our Lazyjot editor highlights the ingenious use of multi-syllabic rhymes and the rhythm pattern that Freddie Gibbs & Madlib employs. Understand the construction of each verse and how it contributes to the song's overall impact.
• Syllable Pattern Insights: Dive deeper into the structural elements of the lyrics. See how the syllable count varies across the song, adding a unique rhythm and flow to Freddie Gibbs & Madlib's narrative.

This lyrical analysis of "Massage Seats - Instrumental" not only celebrates Freddie Gibbs & Madlib's artistic prowess but also serves as an educational tool for aspiring songwriters. If this analysis inspires you and you'd like to see your own songs analyzed in this way, join the Lazyjot community. Register at Lazyjot and start exploring the full potential of your lyrical creativity. Turn your thoughts into rhymes and your rhymes into songs with Lazyjot!

Yeah, bitch say what's up, I said, uh Nigga, flip a brick Bitch ask me what's up, I said, uh Pimp a bitch Diamonds in the woodgrain wheel, nigga Nigga, Kane Golden State the roster, my garage deep Floating in the foreign on massage seats Yeah, keep, keep designer on a broad feet I been water whippin' Earl Simmons, all my dawgs eat 44 Bulldog, all my dawgs bite Flexin' AMG, pushin' redline through the red light Spot a pussy boy with a red dot, bust a headshot They got us in the scope, all this bread talk really fed talk Yeah, nigga, fuck it, get your money on Still takin' calls on this money phone Every Sunday morning, I hit Maurice with the MoneyGram He was major league, I'm pitchin' softball, underhand These niggas don't understand This ain't for soccer mamas, this for the underground Niggas was the shit last summer and now they numbers down Rappers gettin' decked for they jewels, I keep that tool with me I go Makaveli on Hugh's brothers, bitch, who the menace? Yeah, Kane, nigga And I was hittin' bitches, I'm talkin' 'bout I was hittin' R&B bitches When a nigga was broke and shit, you know what I'm sayin', nigga? You know what I'm sayin'? Platinum bitches, you know what I mean? Bitches on the charts, you feel me? Yeah You know what I mean, Not just really big bitches tryna get on, you know what I'm sayin'? Yeah, Kane Season Yeah, nigga, fuck it, get your money on Still takin' calls on this money phone (Yo, what up?) Every Sunday morning, Keshia hit me with the MoneyGram Touchdown in the Chi and make that pussy do the money dance I should have a tux on in this bitch, me and money make holy matrimony Shot caller, put them shooters on you like D'Antoni Top dollar, lock me up and I make the bond, no Big baller, father, you my son like Lonzo (Bitch) Entertainer with a lot of trap contacts We pushin' packs 'cause in this rap, it ain't no max contract With fifty on a nigga head, that's a trap contract And catch him with a car full and push they whole shit back Seats in the 600, push they whole shit back I flip a flow and do a show and get the whole clique racks, bitch Whippin' Earl Simmons, all my dawgs eat Golden State the roster, my garage deep Floating in the foreign on massage seats Yeah, see, you gotta see, nigga, you know, you gotta understand (Yeah) I'm from Gary, niggas ain't used to no, No foreign cars, you know what I'm sayin'? (Fuck nigga) Like, I remember when When that nigga Ced came through with the C, C230 or some shit, C or E class, some shit I'm like "Nigga? Get out that motherfuckin' auntie Benz, nigga"