[Verse 1: Kalel]
It's Blowout and Kalel. No doubt, you might just
Catch us in cyphers with Ace Lover, the only rapper living
With a life-sized photograph on his tape cover
To get their wax spinning, they picture for the
Front page cover of your magazine. These shady other
Emcees will spit a rap for a soundtrack to a p**no
Flick starring they mother. I'm something that
You haven't seen nowadays, brother. Son of God
Stay far away from the DJs that only play they
Gay lovers in heavyweight money folders, getting records
Spinning with payola. A&Rs treat you like
A little kid writing with Crayolas, taking you apart
See, I can't tell if you Mr. Potato Head or Barbie
And you don't even know yourself hardly. Trying to
Diss me? You sound like you're displeased. You only owe
Yourself an apology. Star, we had this locked before
Bob Marley and the rest of our peeps' history
Got robbed—even before Medusa had Europeans
Petro, calling us dreadful. We let the
Follicles over the head grow natural like rap flows
Off the head, yo. Caesar was a h*mos**ual
Roman general, so if they wasn't locked, then I'd still
Wouldn't get chopped. Just rock the flow out with the pick
With the black fist on top of it, perhaps with Blowout
Like Huey from The Boondocks, Dot Net be rocking his
Commercial mixtapes be watered down
Emcees got wet. In fact, son, I'd rather hit
Thought-word action on the internet, connect to the shop
That got the new Blowout ca**ette. Cool, I'll send a check
‘Cause that's something better to cop. It's like the Mic King
On indieground.com—my rhymes make competitor box