| Can they kick it?
|
| Hear the drummer get wicked
|
| Can the mans really spit it?
|
| You ain’t really listening, B
|
| Sunshine, everything I spit is Vitamin D
|
| Eyes bloodshot red with a vision of green
|
| Bruck-pocket, but fuck it
|
| I’m living the dream
|
| Looking goofy like Steve Buscemi
|
| With a shorty like Shilpa Shetty
|
| Silver tongue like a steel machete
|
| Guts hanging out your belly like spilt spaghetti
|
| Money flying like hundred dollar bill confetti
|
| Get me?
|
| I’ve got the militant cartel
|
| Who’ll empty your wallet like a Phillie cigar shell
|
| My name ringing an alarm bell
|
| The stake through a vampire’s chest
|
| Every lyric is heartfelt
|
| I give 'em the hard sale
|
| The coke in the cooler
|
| Bring me the Martell
|
| You’re all toys like Mattel
|
| Give me two sheets
|
| I roll a joint like an L
|
| Fuck it
|
| I roll an L-M-N-O-P
|
| Whenever I please
|
| Whether lemon cheese
|
| Or the peng is Lebanese
|
| Trees from across the seven seas
|
| The illest shit the world has ever seen
|
| Can they kick it?
|
| Hear the drummer get wicked
|
| Can the mans really spit it?
|
| They ain’t fuckin with me!
|
| Can they kick it?
|
| Hear the drummer get wicked
|
| Can the mans really spit it?
|
| They ain’t fuckin with me!
|
| The war chief with a million militias
|
| Billy is malicious
|
| I’ll be doing this
|
| 'til I’m living in a million dollar villa in Mauritius
|
| Kill a lyricist, and leave him swimming with the fishes
|
| Doesn’t victory taste delicious?
|
| He died of circumstances suspicious
|
| But insignificant evidence to prosecute
|
| I make the impossible possible
|
| Billy leap-frogging every obstacle
|
| What do I got to do to get a beer around here?
|
| Boy up the promoter
|
| Clip him around the ear on some mum shit
|
| You’re on some dumb shit
|
| You’ll get confronted
|
| Are you really feeling the beats?
|
| I’ll hit you with a drum stick!
|
| One sick son of a —
|
| A hell of a hullabaloo
|
| My head like a helium balloon
|
| My ego is out of control
|
| Off the leash, capiche?
|
| Blood, sweat, and elbow grease
|
| Can they kick it?
|
| Hear the drummer get wicked
|
| Can the mans really spit it?
|
| They ain’t fuckin with me!
|
| Can they kick it?
|
| Hear the drummer get wicked
|
| Can the mans really spit it?
|
| They ain’t fuckin with me! |