Lyrical Breakdown of Mortal Thought - A Journey through Words and Rhymes

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

• Lyric Overview: Witness how KRS-One weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "Mortal Thought" 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 KRS-One 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 KRS-One's narrative.

This lyrical analysis of "Mortal Thought" not only celebrates KRS-One'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!

You never will conquer the champion You never will conquer the champion Calm down my selector Adjust that treble right now adjust the bass Turn it up, stop frontin' C'mon, turn it up Alright, check it out ninety-three lyrics, here we go I never want a jheri curl up under my hat The woman in my bed has got to be strictly black I never want money if my lyrics are wack So I must, rock, the mic I play only the reggae and I play only rap I rock the African, the European, and Jap Beneath I got to show you that I am all that So I must, rock, the mic Are you tired of lyrical liars, passing fliers Wannabe MC's but really good triers Tripping over mic cords, getting you bored A total fraud, this kind of thing I can't afford So I pick up the mic and kill it ill it top bill it The cough is a skillet, where MC's get fried in it You got beef chill it, blood I spill it After seven long years of ripping the party and I'm still widdit You call my name I don't think about suing ya I come to the club with that booyaka Laughing while I'm doin' ya the crowd is booin' ya Gimme one month, record for record on tape I'll ruin ya Some likkle awl pon sound bwoy wanna if rule de city His style is lookin' pretty beats and rhymes are dibby dibby Here comes the rootical ratical teacha I'll eat ya defeat ya beat ya till ya stagger and ya teeth chatter You'll be goin' through convulsions as I flash data Any rapper can be a decapitated rapper now what's the matter You're full of more junk than a sausage Let me show you what a real hip hop artist My posse from the Bronx My posse from the Bronx My posse from the Bronx My posse from the Bronx I never want a jheri curl up under my hat The woman in my bed has got to be strictly black I never want money if my lyrics are wack So I must, rock, the mic I play only the reggae and I play only rap I rock the African, the European, and Jap Beneath I got to show you that I am all that So I must, rock, the mic Of course, yeah I'm the most brilliant recording artist in your life Never have to repeat a rhyme style twice, precise In a lyrical drought like water to your lips oh yes my lyrics will suffice I'm nice, like beans and rice, I am delicious Who's the freshest lyricist on the mic, you don't want to fuck with Kris is Lyric for lyric rhyme for rhyme style for style I break you like dishes Either you come fully correct or the lyrics you simply makin' wishes We got no time for fake black leaders and dreamers blowin' wishes You see a fraud, I mean a fraud like in fraudulation I know what it is, the crown of rhyme supremacy you're tastin' And yes, before the flavor hits your greedy tongue You get ripped up by KRS-One Now, lyrics, somebody want lyrics, from the lyrical terrorist Here's a little somethin for you all to remember Kris And remember this I am no pessimist, more of an optimist Activist revolutionist, yes the hardest artist And the smartest, Premier, spark this My posse from the Bronx My posse from the Bronx My posse from the Bronx My posse from the Bronx I never want a jheri curl up under my hat The woman in my bed has got to be strictly black I never want money if my lyrics are wack So I must, rock, the mic I play only the reggae and I play only rap I rock the African, the European, and Jap Beneath I got to show you that I am all that So I must, rock, the mic