[Verse 1: Sean Smart]
It's the feeling that you get when you approach the mic to spit;
same confidence you need in politics or walking up to a chick.
Straighten up, take a breath, watch your step,
stay high--no, I mean, say "hi" if you can't think of nothing else.

It's like hearing Slug and Murs together for the first time
cause I know inside it's like nothing you've ever felt.
It's better felt thru the trunk with the bass up;
rollin' with the homies, scribblin' lines on some paper.

Corner store, we need a chaser. Swisher...make it grape, uhh.
Fill it with some bud, spark it up, and take a great puff.
Yeah...this is THAT kinda feeling.
Matching Moses with some great emcees is giving higher meaning...

...meaning...

Higher Education. Yeah, they been waiting.
Built atop a cloud with skill and great determination,
a class filled with lyricists from all across the nation.
Okay, then here it is: I can't wait to see your faces.

[Hook: Moses]
(There are no words here. Just a harmony of duh-duh-duh-duh or something. Pretend it's deep, though.)

[Verse 2: Korim]
Sorry when I'm rippin' if a little bit of wicked
might just spill up out the pen. I'm just spittin' what I'm livin'
Listen to the sickness. The picture is vivid
as the scripture I'm givin'. It ain't for dividends or ends.

The diction that I'm tricklin' is for the residents of tenements
and citizens and friends. Fist jumpin' on the lunch table,
sicker than the phlegm. Snare runnin', kick skippin', with a pen.
Homies rappin' off the top of a brim.

I'm tryna bring it back and have these rappers start blackin' again.
Backpack, tape full of tracks, a pad, and a pen.
Ridin' instrumentals like we capture the wind.
Little youngin's actin' like men. Spittin' fat as Hell though we actually thin.

Never tell where we actually been.
Talkin' 'bout the places that our rhymes will take us
if we make it. Heart drop, beatin' on the paper, hard, not believin' all the haters.
Raw shock. The lethalest of vapors. Yeah.

[Hook: Moses]

[Verse 3: Defcee]
Jo...

My storylines are flippin' scripts. I'm grippin' with the gems.
Peep: the listeners are trickin'. I be pimpin' with the pen.
Put it on they playlist. When it's gettin' to the end,
they scrollin' over the title, double-clickin' it again.

Back when I was scribblin' some writtens with my friends
who were kickin' wicked with the tilted fitteds on they heads.
Flows ironed together like some stitches into hems.
Actin' as if 'Pac were livin', flickin' spit onto a lens.

Damagin' cameras; mishandlin' stanzas with amateur grammar.
We were too young. Hieroglyphics on crude tongues.
Slidin' by cold until all of our luge done.
Like Carnival staff, when we made the cruise/crews run.

Wannabe new Puns: no limmericks.
The flow is intimate whenever it's kissin' on the rhythm.
Get a bit of spittle off of the mic and use the hand I dribble with.
Can't understand like letters to illiterates? Then PICTURE this.

[Hook: Moses]