| : Let’s descend to the depths of Monster Island. |
| For the first time in history,
|
| the order is given to evacuate New York City
|
| : Don’t panic. |
| Everybody, just keep moving. |
| We’ve got plenty of time,
|
| everyone will get out safely. |
| Keep moving, keep moving
|
| : And through the now-silent canyons of the huge city…
|
| Ayyo
|
| Dilapidated graff inscribed on the building, we prefer
|
| Gats to textbooks—teachers and principals got stuck up
|
| Got an education from hustlers, gunrunners, smack-out artists
|
| And real-estate crooks. |
| Spoken broken English
|
| Supplement the bling-bling rocks, naked bitches' G-string
|
| Pop, shoot meteorites from my slingshot, redefine
|
| The aerodynamics of space flight when I play the wing spot
|
| It’s like Sugar Ray Robinson smacking Jake LaMotta
|
| Verse by verse you still couldn’t get hotter, mocha choco-
|
| -lata, yadda, yadda, yadda. |
| Pussy as sweet as Mýa, bitches
|
| Still getting nada. |
| Thermonuclear mushroom clouds
|
| Sky-squatter, ATO. |
| M.I.C. |
| It’s like
|
| The Monster Island of Doctor Moreau, keep pursuing, conquis- |
| -tador, drug Czar, Super Powers like the former Soviet Union
|
| Keep the black toast close to me like it’s supposed to be
|
| Fuck around, play Son of Sam, blow your brains all over your brand-new
|
| Leather interior upholstery. |
| Glass-jaw actors
|
| Prepare for the chin-check. |
| Kong drop a bomb for those insects
|
| Cock-feeding wifey while your chickenhead steady hen-pecks
|
| Itching for a scratch, track record—check the index
|
| Dealing with alcoholism, the constant threat of prison
|
| Still maintain balance in relationship to rhythm
|
| Bush is the president, but I still voted for Shirley Chisholm
|
| The blood of Jesus tampon-style—believe this. |
| Beast’s hands
|
| On the fetus, speeders. |
| Last Supper, fucker
|
| Eat this. |
| Preachers dancing sleeveless on the poor
|
| But preachless. |
| What kind of greed is this, making G’s
|
| Off Jesus? |
| Is he a myth or does he exist?
|
| Is he a white man? |
| Is he a black man squeezing the fifth?
|
| Answer: lips, fingertips, knees, and hips. |
| You pieces
|
| Of shits, how many pieces of green is rich? |
| I’m like
|
| Damn, this priest is a snitch, telling the police |
| Who the true Jesus is. |
| Could lead to this
|
| Face to face, fist to feet, feet to fist
|
| Don’t eat the fish in the sink they beat their dicks
|
| : How did the monsters escape?
|
| Die
|
| Thugs, die thugs, fly slugs, cry blood, eyes
|
| Bloodshot, slug shot, watch the blood drop. |
| When
|
| The blood slug shot, play your porch like a step ‘cause I’m a
|
| Crook, ready to knock this nigga phone off the hook. |
| I will
|
| Infect your insects when I inject my ind-
|
| -ex in text, Windex your chin-check
|
| Kong love ghetto hoes, settle those, bare them toes
|
| Kink hoes are tight, ride right pero slow
|
| Fuck with the Czars? |
| You’d rather play with Devil nose or play with his toes
|
| Or eat yellow snow. |
| Fuck around, how did them know?
|
| No man can fuck with Kong, Conan, KD, X-Ray
|
| Rodan, Megalon, smacking niggas with a closed hand
|
| Crisp styles let go, someone hears some missiles like Puerto
|
| Piss styles and petro, all you hear is whis-
|
| -tles and echoes
|
| Never let go, whether or not I’m petro
|
| Step to the ring swinging bricks and elbows—better let ‘em know |
| Keeping it going, keeping it moving. |
| People be knowing, still, they
|
| Be booing. |
| My shit will keep blowing—see what they’re doing, leaving
|
| ‘Em open, keeping ‘em wishing, me reminiscing, fetal
|
| Positions, we’re leaving ‘em twitching, seizing the kitchen
|
| Real or superstition, odds become even like flatlines—that's
|
| Fine. |
| Heart of a raptor—when I attack, black, I stack
|
| Mine, hard like black wine after revision in prison
|
| See me and listen about the bloody-red skies that I’ll be kissing
|
| Who missing?
|
| : The major cities in the world are being destroyed one by one by the monsters
|
| : Couldn’t you foresee this?
|
| : We are not trying to conceal anything from you. |
| The truth of the matter,
|
| gentlemen, is that we don’t know what has happened
|
| : Is that true?
|
| : All I can say now is we know nothing, but every one of us feels the very same
|
| thing |