blowpop rotten, intensley disgustipatin'/
fuck a ratin'! juss key-checkin ta see which way my nut'z are hangin'/ don't like my clog stomp? switch up ya drainz, then/ how dat curb taste, NIGGA? have ya "bruh'z" re-scrub da pavement/ o.k. then... if you still tuned in, dis da afterlife cyph/ orgasms that change ya strife, turn on these hoes twice as nice as mike on ice/ done crossed over into being originoo/ sikk o da boojhee bin tapes gettin da numba wun sticka, dude!/ hell, i'm sikk of you not lookin' past ya guyz bi-focalz/ somebody better shoot me in they eye and let me die if i ever qwote you/ puffin' till i'm as high as i'm supposed to/ most emceez hardly holdin' down this earth, how they supposed ta understand a man that can hold two?/ i pulled through da blacnezz with less than a scratch on this/ think back on shyt...did they ever record the lord takin' laxitivez?/ you hatin' me because of a metamucil metaphore/ madd cuz i claim you a bytch... i was wrong... i meant a whore/ knock ya head through doors meant to be opened by forces that's pressurized/ take you to the edge of the universe, make ya girls booty hurt, and be back in less than five/ can't see the horizon unless you rise, bottled water sex offender/ ready for combat better than that bytch machine in zone of enderz/ i know i'll offend you. you gotta post ta play/ what am i supposed to say? the board reads ya shyt, then it's thrown away/ sweeter than a bowl of gays and a poster of the death row pose of dre/ niggaz still dreamin' of holdin' da qwotes and thronez i hold today....

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