Apathy - Don't You Even Go There lyrics

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x2} How you doin'? My name's Louis, first of all, I make stupid music For losers and beer abusers, screw ups and human sewers I'm a cesspool myself with a head full of wealth-y Rich and sick sh** thoughts that helps me to sell CDs I mastered in givin' n***as gasps As if asthma is constrictin' to clog the blunt pa**ages Act as if you don't want an a** whippin, see? Sometimes bein' a p**y can have its advantages Isn't it glamorous to get your a**es beat By one of the last emcees, 'til your cancellin' seats? If the fans disagree, I make house calls You keep it up, it'll be tough bustin' nuts without balls I'm just an outlaw who doesn't belong So strong I make my own squad look dumb on our songs So when I put one of 'em on, n***as get so mad I had to get a car system with a headphone jack [Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4} [Apathy] I've existed for eons, peons run, even three-on-one My rhymes outshine like I got a neon tongue In battle I'm gifted, it's like I'm cata-calysmic The baddest to spit it, my optics read data and digits Like I'm Neo when I master the Matrix, faster than spaceships [Futuristic flow] But bring it back to the basics I'm a flow fanatic, memory is photographic When I was a little s**m, blasted out the prophylactic Now I blow the static off your dusty phonograph [Ap's about to blow] like the noses on some coke addicts You wack jokes'll get your back broke Cause I keep it gangsta like Ice Cube with jheri curls and black locs Fast to blast like white teens in black coats Walkin' in math cla** and clap till the gat smokes Your girl jocks me and clocks me like a track coach You thought you had a doper flow, [ha!] I don't think so [Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4} [Celph Titled] [Yo] You can call the feds and the army or the f**in' navy But you can't stop a wild animal hungry with rabies [grrrr...] And I'm just that, while you sayin' you got gats co*ked Your whole platoon is lookin' like the Mister Softee mascot I give a f** if you Believe It or Not I'll rip Ripley's limbs off and beat 'em with 'em till 'is body drops It ain't a question if this sh** is the bomb I'll choke your b**h with a thong and dump 'er off on your lawn It's funny the way I lick shots off in the sound booth I'm so hilarious I pull walk-bys in a clown suit My n***as keep it gator And while your album's in stores now, it's in the trash can later I hate a f**in' emcee who think that they can face the god Celph Titled I'd rather use a rifle than a microphone to snipe you Certified officially, we got the ill flow And make headlines like a corduroy pillow [Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}