It's holy war, swing a holy sword
Rock CB4s, snort lines of Ouija boards
I'm a sight for sure, my lord God
Psych-cyphin' in the psych ward
A point lightnin' might strike for
High on life or, pour moscato on my mic cords
Poor Moscato's f**ing life
The sun is painted white
Are my lungs painted black?
Grab the tape, Rewind it back
And find a sack, and roll that, roll that (roll that)
I'm on my Nick Carraway
Narrator of a real-life screenplay
Where you can see space
I like to lick her c-place
Then I take a sip of liq
And spit it into Ye face
Ima f**ing prick, a f**ing dick
A living head-case, breathing disgrace
Reasons displaced
Playing sick games with the Big Dipper
Reflecting on Rap City: The Ba**ment, Big Tigger
I think I get the bigger picture...
Chorus 1
Twist that sh** until I whisper
Make me disappear
Twist that sh** until I whisper
Make me disappear
Twist that sh** until I whisper
Make me disappear
Twist that sh** until I whisper
Make me disappear