[Produced by Madlib]
I get no kick from champagne
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all
So tell me why shouldn't it be true?
I get a kick out of brew
There's only one beer left
Rappers screaming all in our ears like we're deaf
Tempt me, do a number on the label
Eat up all they MC's and drink 'em under the table
Like, "It's on me. Put it on my tab kid."
However you get there, foot it, cab it, iron horse it
You're leaving on your face, forfeit
I crush the mic, hold it like the heat, he might toss it
Told him tell her they stole it - he told her he lost it
She told him, "Get off it," and a bunch of other more sh**
Getting money, DT's be getting no new leads
It's like he eating watermelon, stay spitting new seeds
It's the weed, give me some of what he's drooping off
Soon as he wake up, choking like it was whooping cough
They group been soft
First hour at the open bar and they're trooping off
He went to go laugh and get some head by the side road
She asked him autograph her derriere, read
“To Wide Load, this yard bird taste like fried toad turd
Love, Villain.” Take pride in code words
Crooked eye mold nerd geek, with a cold heart
Probably still be speaking in rhymes as an old fart
Study how to eat to die, by the pizza guy
No he's not too fly to skeet in a skeezer's eye
And squeeze her thigh, maybe give her curves a feel
The same way she feel it when he flow with nerves of steel
They call the super when they need their back... uhh... plumbing fixed
"How there only one left? The pack comes in six!
Whatever happened to two and three?"
A herb tried to slide with four and five and got caught
Like, "What you doing G?
Don't make me have to get cutting like truancy
Matter fact, not for nothing, right now, you and me!"
Looser than a pair of Adidas
I hope you brought your spare tweeters
MC's sound like cheerleaders
Rapping and dancing like Red Head Kingpin
DOOM came do his thing again, no matter who be blingin'
He do it for the smelly hubbies
Seeds know what time it is like it's time for Tellie Tubbies
Few can do it, even fewer can sell it
Take it from the dude who wears mask like a 'tarded helmet
He plots shows like robberies
In and out, one, two, three, no bodies, please
Run the cash and you won't get a wet sweatshirt
The mic is the shotty: nobody move, nobody get hurt
Bring heat, like your boy done gone to war
He came in the door, and "Everybody on the floor!"
A whole string of jobs, like we on tour
Every night on the score, coming to your corner store