[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