[Intro: Poops]
f** it. Let's call this a promo. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Yeah. This is how we're gonna do it. I am the one they call “Poops.” Many don't know my name. Check it. Still, it doesn't matter. Park Slope. Son, yeah. Uh. Check
[Verse 1: Poops]
It doesn't matter if you was raised in a hard place
‘Cause I still leave your squad laced
Watch it, ghetto boy, as if I was Scarface
I'm moving in an odd pace of motion
Music's a notion. And when played
I use a verse to surf over soundwaves
I'm live with my vibe with whoms I reside
To energize many lives, I murder—you heard, yeah?
When I go all-out, MCs play the inside like a paranoid hermit
The political war started and the president's my target
So these next bars written were made to imprison Clinton
As he listens, he's offered to a trapped hostage
Our metamorphous developed by our rap arts
When are the lies done from snakes that are fake?
As an item from a black market. A musical mercenary
Who will accomplish and conquer this industry
Dictating misery through my delivery
Mentally, through sound, dominating Earth to become my emba**y
Houses scream, “Punishment,” tortures are so extreme
Never seen—none expected me ‘cause the
Lethal, unconcentrated evil was camouflaged by a mellow melody
Toxic, hypnotic copies got grit
Taking your mind hostage with garbage
Once you like it, you could try, man
But an escape is useless as a blind man's optics
You got it. Once I state a line, I invade your state of mind
To be coming so bright with intellect and to reflects light of a greater shine
Poops is a gentleman? Guess again. Pure, living hell
Is how I prevail, won the best with them
I be wrecking and first to a frail skeleton
Then to a single-cell specimen
[Outro: Poops]
Yeah. Something like that. Keeping it more than real—just a mic, a tape deck, and an aerosol. For Bobbito, 89 Tec 9. Check the rhyme. Stretch Armstrong