Remember elementary, I went to Jefferson
old memories, they start resurfacin‘.
Poured my heart out,
On an empty Guiness Stout…
bottle,
dark and bitter was my motto.
You’re mathematically challenged if you think you’ll win the lotto.
It’d be a modern day miracle,
like if some wack emcee today got lyrical,
but they can’t cause it’s not in their genes,
they’re sportin’ stone-washed-denim if you know what I mean.
So come clean,
we all know
you were bitin my flow.
I wrote these rhymes some seven years ago,
to this day.
What are you my protege?
Maybe in a plagiaristic kinda sorta way!
Winters almost over got my Lugz stored away,
breakin’ out my DCs gotta lose a little weight,
So my fat butt can pull off that five-stepper,
make it switch-stance, it’s ill like Def Leppard,
remember.

In front of the screen on a Sunday mornin’,
Waitin’ for the coffee, I yawn, I’m torn in..
two.
Should I A: Finish this here ditty,
or B: Get a Sunday paper and break that fiddy?
or C: Realize the midwest is too cold,
pick up shop, and go southwest where I’m told,
it’s too dry and nice to grow any mold,
and the fish tacos flow like water.
Grass is always greener, it’s just the same fodder.
The coffee is done.

Check it,
Imma grab this mic for a second,
and show you what it means to be wreckin’
shop.
What I mean to hip-hop?
Not a lot I guess,
if it means payin’ the record labels,
thats mess,
but I must confess,
that I write and write on.
I write for the mic,
and write with the Krylon.
Politics makes yawn,
pass me that pork chop,
hold that filet mignon,
and keep your wealth
to yourself,
cause I’ll get my own.
And come back at ya like a stealth,
bomber,
but peaceful like the Dalai Lama.

All these rhymes come from my head,
sometimes they write themselves in my stead.
You’re dead,
if you get caught in my verbal assault.
But I’m not in the occult,
like Marilyn Manson,
hip-hop not pop like Hansen.
Cause these top 40 minds are too minute,
to dilute,
these rhymes that I’m sayin’,
FM or AM,
they will not be found,
cause my sound is strictly underground,
and profound.
The compound,
is rhymes and beats,
it’s more than meets,
the eye.
Like Optimus Prime said,
‘Autobots transform!’
but I’m not the norm.
I’m all loc,
like Cheech & Chong on smoke,
but I don’t pick up the toke,
cause it’s a joke,
if you wanna stay raw and uncut,
ya’ll be stuck in a marijuana rut.
Talkin’ bout blunts,
and talkin’ bout fats,
talkin’ bout ‘em bigger than baseball bats.
Please,
come off of that tease,
alright?
That stuff got old after B-Real set it off right!
Ya think you’re all tight,
With you’re circus tents,
whats up with this JNCO nonsense,
burnin’ smelly incense,
listenin’ to ska.
I’d rather be listenin’ to LA
the Darkman,
you’re all yes men,
Listenin’ to only what the radio will play,
Hooty, No Doubt, Bush, and Sugar Ray.
No disrespect to the mainstream,
money and music, they make a good team,
right?
No wrong,
I’m singin’ a different song,
than Sean Puffy Gums,
I’m gettin’ sick where’s the Tums.
Cause raps not all about entertainin‘,
I big part of rap is about maintainin‘,
so put on your raincoat cause it’s rainin,
wack emcees from the sky.
They look at me and wonder why,
they can’t be,
the C-U-B,
the O-S-O,
with the fresh flow,
the B-E-N,
to descend,
the B-C-L,
to excel,
like Del,
gettin’ funky like Fidel
Castro,
you think retro,
is the Clash,
but I’ll be spinnin’ Grandmaster Flash.