| Aiyyo I stand outside the gates of Buckingham Palace
|
| Selling reefer, puffin the chalice with the Beefeaters
|
| Gettin so high that whenever I drop shit
|
| it’ll land on the window of your airplane cockpit
|
| Canibus with the hot shit, Crazy I. Click
|
| Niggaz is bloody idiots thinkin that they can stop this
|
| I’ll increase my strength, to a super human extent
|
| Nigga your rhyme ain’t worth sixpence
|
| And if you can hear, smell, see, touch, and taste
|
| then you don’t need six senses to feel me punch you in the face
|
| From Brixton, to Clapham Common, my lyrics invade Europe
|
| like Joseph Stalin, and murder niggaz for rhymin
|
| Spittin fire, with gasoline for saliva
|
| As drunk as Lady Diana’s driver wit reporters behind her
|
| Alcohol in the hands of a minor
|
| I got you panickin like bombs, with 30 second timers
|
| Clear the buildin, evacuate women and children
|
| Fuck what you feelin nigga, I came here to kill em Straight shittin, from New York to Great Britain
|
| And when we do shows we make the Queen pay admission, what!
|
| Chorus: Canibus (and crowd)
|
| When I say Can-I you say Bus
|
| Can-I (BUS!) Can-I (BUS!)
|
| Yo, when I say Can-I you say Bus
|
| Can-I (BUS!) Can-I (BUS!)
|
| Yo. |
| yo.
|
| Yo prepare for the worst
|
| This next verse is the face of death
|
| Me without lyrics is like a porn flick without sex
|
| Illmatic, my lyrical skills are Jurassic
|
| With more flavor then Skittles when I’m digitally mastered
|
| I go off like a cannon and blow up the planet
|
| with No Fear, like them clothes white boys be wearin
|
| I’m tougher than denim, lethal like venomous snake bites
|
| The marijuana makes my eyes bright red like brake lights
|
| There ain’t a party I couldn’t rock, believe that
|
| There ain’t a microphone brave enough to give me feedback
|
| I’m strong, my word is Bond like James
|
| Niggaz be tryin to test, but they 'week'like seven days
|
| MC’s run away when I kick it; |
| they act so chicken
|
| they should come with a large drink and a biscuit
|
| My style’s radioactive, massive atomic
|
| I plan to push the Earth in front of Halley’s Comet
|
| Breakin the +Facts of Life+ down like Tudy, I’m raw like sushi
|
| with more +Vocab+, than three fuckin Fugees
|
| So recognize or be hospitalized
|
| cause lyrically on a scale of one to ten I’m twenty-five
|
| Yo, yo, a little bit of weed and some Henessey
|
| got me ready to set it with kinetic energy
|
| See I need much more energy then my enemies
|
| If I wanna make more Bill’s then Bellamy
|
| So I could be on MTV
|
| with women constantly tellin me I resemble Billy Dee
|
| I make fly rhymes to get my name on the scene
|
| Then when I’m on the scene I do shows to get the green
|
| Then I take the green, buy a automobile machine
|
| for that thing on page 43, in Jet Magazine
|
| Canibus is the ultimate executioner’s dream
|
| Swingin the guillotine, cause whenever the head is severed
|
| from the human body with a sharp enough weapon
|
| the brain remains conscious for ten seconds
|
| Long enough for me to give you one last message
|
| And when you get to Hell you can tell Lucifer I said it Don’t ever get it confused, fuckin with Canibus
|
| the human Rubix Cube like you got somethin to prove
|
| Yo, whoever grabs the mic after me’ll get booed
|
| Get everything in the club thrown at you and your crew
|
| From Moet bottles to bar stools, fruits and foods
|
| You got a album out, you get hit with your CD too
|
| Runnin outside, cryin, lyin, denyin
|
| that you ain’t The Gay Rapper, but you got fucked by him
|
| What’s the difference? |
| Y’all niggaz still ain’t in lyrical fitness
|
| Too busy mixin your bid’ness with your bitches
|
| While I be in the lab composin forbidden scriptures
|
| So wicked I got, Satan ejaculatin on his fingers
|
| Like Dirk Diggler, in the middle of +Boogie Nights+
|
| Sniffin white, livin the hype, he ruined his life
|
| But I’m a MC of a different type, yeah that’s right
|
| Make sure your shit is tight, or I’ma snatch yo’mic, nigga! |