|
Behold the fungus among us |
|
When dabblin with babblin |
|
I sends the battle scene to the apocalypse |
|
With this you grab my cock ya lips |
|
Be gettin sorta puckery |
|
Gettin the Brewin gassed to save that ass come stop the fuckery |
|
My style'll leave ya posin like a hitch hiker |
|
Make me wanna bitch microphone slap that shady ass, you bullshit nigga |
|
Your frontin said you didn't think too hot of me |
|
But once you feel the vocal sodomy you'll say, "You got it, G" |
|
I finds the virgin ears I'm bustin raw pops |
|
Ya savin the drops, tryin to analyze my DNA, the verbal blueprint |
|
Even if you spend eternity you're baffled, nigga |
|
Havin not the slightest clue of how I'm swingin |
|
Bringin styles and flow that's nastier than urine |
|
See my shit is pure and ghetto embellished demonic funk and all that good shit |
|
A bad nigga when it comes to grabbin mics |
|
I love all women of the spectrum, fuck around I'm stabbin dykes |
|
And as I hurt em I convert em, when it comes to honey dip skits |
|
I'm leavin pussies sore as if you just delivered triplets, I flip shit |
|
When niggas say the brewin doesn't rhyme slick |
|
I yokes em in the Heimlich just to get the fuckin garbage out ya throat |
|
Mentally hardcore |
|
There be no guard for defendin against the shit I'm sendin |
|
Once you're comprehendin the ill funk aphrodisiac |
|
Givin the hoodies woodies as I'm fuckin up the head like brass knuckles givin noogies |
|
[Scratching, horns] |
|
I be's the hell fire word reaver |
|
Even Ripley can't believe |
|
I pull a stunt as if my name was Colt Seaver |
|
AKA The Fall Guy |
|
I never score, why? |
|
I'm hittin like Mattingly |
|
Get your fuckin Webster's dictionary |
|
Look under "fat" and you'll see my profile so smile |
|
You're grinnin like the Joker |
|
Cause I chose to smoke a mic and let you witness |
|
Get this through your thick skull: my shit is deadly |
|
I kicks my verse, niggas couldn't offer competition with a medley of their works |
|
I smirks when booty niggas try and grab this |
|
Survival of the fittest call me fuckin Tony Atlas, at the podium |
|
I pours my sodium in open flesh wounds as I mesh tunes with the vocal joint |
|
To become the focal point |
|
Brothas of funk soon discover I be +deeper+ than that nigga Larry Fishburne's +cover+ |
|
Hover on the L, sorta like a stealth in the night |
|
Then I makes the party +jump+ even when it's full of +white men+ |
|
[Scratching, horns] |
|
Check it out |
|
I represent enlightenment |
|
That have you squintin |
|
Hintin to rewards of the lord's charity received with clarity |
|
I heave skillaful syllable is the brick I stick in music mortar |
|
Makin ya think and raisin my floor to architect |
|
I comes to spark a teck |
|
Mind barrages massages carressed in peace |
|
The vocal acupuncture your stress released |
|
Like a hymen crack in my rhymin slack and never that |
|
Styles mysterious like under LL's hat |
|
The curious become the furious and play the jury |
|
Thus I'm found guilty labelin my sound filthy with the gutter in my utter |
|
A fat bitch goes, "Me me me" |
|
I cut her in pieces kill her sisters daughters and nieces |
|
Anything related to such a thought |
|
I crush I fought hard representin wicked Juggaknot minds |
|
I breaks it down to your English |
|
I makes you say, "I'm gooder" |
|
Verbs deeper than a hooker strictly bonin seven footers |
|
[Scratching, horns til fade] |