Non-Prophets - Tolerance Level lyrics

(Intro) To the best of my knowledge I guess that I'm fresh and -- (yo, hold up, hold up) Yo Joe Beats, what's the purpose of you stoppin' me? (I don't know man I want you to kick the raps You were kickin' a long time ago, not this emo sh**) Aight, aight (Verse 1) I was getting props when I first started to flow Makin' this music wrecking shop like a retarded vocational student Didn't know it at the time, that the sh** made me look stupid Rockin' pro-black rhymes over the devil made me do it I never gave two sh**s bout rockin' new kicks I ain't the type to wear something just cause the shoe fits I make moves quick, to your head feet first I dig women who got more to get offa their chests than wet T-shirts Rent the east herb, permit the west side I'd rather eat dirt than ingest pride, my sixth sense shines Less wack than Mos Def's pitiful incense vibe You couldn't ghostwrite if your invisible ink pen died! Now kick fresh rhymes, and think next time Before you're paid to be actin' As an emcee I'm a character a**a**in Paid to k** off all your made-for-TV rappin' When the sh** hits the fan, I'mma blame it on GG Allin (Chorus) My tolerance level has peaked, and it's time for heads to get flown Just because I speak peace doesn't mean I can't throw no joints (I don't know.) (Verse 2) Now I stopped to build a bridge during my agnostic pilgrimage Lost my will to live, so I shot and k**ed some kids I'm just kiddin', no I'm not Into oral bestiality I'm just blowin' Spots And I got more back than acne on the slap-happy-go-lucky types Monday Night Football fanatics, a**crack addicts with thunder bites Got more bodies on my mic than my pistol I ain't got a pistol but there's bodies on my mic (bullsh**, you do) (It's true!) And Joe will k** you with the bullet prose Throw a book of sample laws towards us, get left with loopholes Take my advice: take an 8-mile hike I'm down by law, like the back of the jacket on Cool as Ice Who is nice? Why'd you ask me? For the last time, I'm nasty - like Nas was at halftime You f**in know it like I know that's a rental car Hey s**a poet, whoever ya are (Chorus 2x) (Verse 3) MC, uh-uh, people don't call you Playin' catch-up with old reissues of Audio Two Lots of artists got bitten, I'm not kiddin' What more can I say? (Bob Dylan) You play the side of the stage like a broken mic stand You ain't enough of an emcee to be Jarobi's hype man! You yelled in double negatives, and couldn't make no noise Why is that? Ask yourself, homeboy Wanna battle me while sayin' writtens, it ain't sane You're better off playing games of chicken with freight trains I'm stickin' to the weight gain, while Dr. Atkins Sticks his dietary co*k into lots of my fat friends Now download my manhood, memorize it's measurements Then lip-sync the circumference if the head doesn't fit You can use your Vulcan grip on my huge bulging dick It's the ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, UH (Chorus 2x) (What does it all mean?) (I don't know!) (x8)