Yeah, clown a** mothaf**as
Couldn't walk a f**ing day over here
[Verse 1:]
Yo, ayo, ayo
My home is where I'm getting head, that'd be New York
But I'm comfortable down south, like Peter North
I'm eating off these beats, I sell enough, my rent is free
So I'll be banging on a triant <--(?) like a f**ing MPC
I'm tired of work, I survive, but it hurts
I'm live but I flirt with d**h until I arrive in the dirt
Inside of my earth, my cannibalistic ways
Over power, what society taught me, and in dismays <--(?)
I'm lost and found, down to earth, went back from off the ground
While you watch sports and down beers, ideas get tossed around
Walking down the block with a fist full of 'f** You's'
Mic check, one, two, pink shirt, plum shoes
You f**ing f*ggots, I'll smack you back to the Golden Age
You underworked, and overpaid, you sold your name
You on the radio, but I got doper sh**
How are you gonna claim that you sold records, when you're not the one who wrote the sh**
Chorus:
[samples: The ex headbanger bad like a f**er. How many emcees must get this. How many mothef**ing mics, I got the grip. There's more to life, that's why I deal what I feel.]
[Yeah, voice myself with microphones, DJ's and spray paint. f**in' f*ggots.]
[Verse 2:]
Ayo, ayo
I hope you take offense to this, cause this is herb sh**
You won freestyle battle by spittin' written verses
You disqualify, you couldn't win a free prize
Singin' in the mirror, tryin' to squeeze into your Levi's
Heat rise, my practice is doing shows
You got a gig next month and you bookin' rehearsal studios
My ruthless flows will flood your painted landscapes
You made mad tapes but forgot to create a fanbase
I used to tag off the staircase and dip
Then eat an eighth of shrooms and make a face like "this tastes like sh**"
And that'll make me sick, I been sick since 1982
In real life I done more dirt than you claim to
I have absolutely no respect for none of you
If I kissed your girl in front of you, what the f** are you gonna do?
Peace to those who got respect for themselves
And every emcee that can drop a dope record that sells
Chorus:
[samples: The ex headbanger bad like a f**er. How many emcees must get this. How many mothef**ing mics, I got the grit. There's more to life, that's why I deal what I feel.]
[Voice myself with microphones, DJ's and spray paint.]