| Living off borrowed time, the clock tick faster
|
| That’d be the hour they knock the slick blaster
|
| Dick Dastardly and Muttley with sick laughter
|
| A gun fight and they come to cut the mixmaster
|
| I-C-E cold, nice to be old
|
| Y2G stee twice to threefold
|
| He sold scrolls, lo and behold
|
| Know who’s the illest ever like the greatest story told
|
| Keep your glory, gold and glitter
|
| For half, half of his niggas’ll take him out the picture
|
| The other half is rich and it don’t mean shit-ta
|
| Villain: a mixture between both with a twist of liquor
|
| Chase it with more beer, taste it like truth or dare
|
| When he have the mic, it’s like the place get like: «Aw yeah!»
|
| It’s like they know what’s 'bout to happen
|
| Just keep ya eye out, like «Aye, aye captain»
|
| Is he still a fly guy clapping if nobody ain’t hear it
|
| And can they testify from inner spirit
|
| In living, the true gods
|
| Giving y’all nothing but the lick like two broads
|
| Got more lyrics than the church got «Ooh Lords»
|
| And he hold the mic and your attention like two swords
|
| Or even one with two blades on it
|
| Hey you, don’t touch the mic like it’s AIDS on it
|
| It’s like the end to the means
|
| Fucked type of message that sends to the fiends
|
| That’s why he brings his own needles
|
| And get more cheese than Doritos, Cheetos or Fritos
|
| Slip like Freudian
|
| Your first and last step to playing yourself like accordion
|
| When he had the mic you don’t go next
|
| Leaving pussy cats like why hoes need Kotex
|
| Exercise index, won’t need Bowflex
|
| And won’t take the one with no skinny legs like Joe Tex |