Lyrics Tolerance Level - Non Prophets

Tolerance Level

To the best of my knowledge
I guess that I’m fresh and -- (yo, hold up, hold up)
Yo Joe Beats, what’s the purpose of you stoppin' me?
(I don’t know man I want you to kick the raps
You were kickin' a long time ago, not this emo shit)
Aight, aight
I was getting props when I first started to flow
Makin' this music wrecking shop like a retarded vocational student
Didn’t know it at the time, that the shit made me look stupid
Rockin' pro-black rhymes over «The Devil Made Me Do It»
I never gave two shits bout rockin' new kicks
I ain’t the type to wear something just cause the shoe fits
I make moves quick, to your head feet first
I dig women who got more to get offa their chests than wet T-shirts
Rep the east turf, I rip the west side
I’d rather eat dirt than ingest pride, my sixth sense shines
Less wack than Mos Def’s pitiful incense vibe
You couldn’t ghostwrite if your invisible ink pen died!
Now kick fresh rhymes, and think next time
Before you’re paid to be actin'
As an emcee I’m a character assassin
Paid to kill off all your made-for-TV rappin'
When the shit hits the fan, I’mma blame it on GG Allin
My tolerance level has peaked, and it’s time for heads to get flown
Just because I speak peace doesn’t mean I can’t throw no joints (I don’t know.)
Now I stopped to build a bridge during my agnostic pilgrimage
Lost my will to live, so I shot and killed some kids
I’m just kiddin', no I’m not
Into oral bestiality I’m just blowin' Spots
And I got more back than acne on the slap-happy-go-lucky types
Monday Night Football fanatics, asscrack addicts with thunder bites
Got more bodies on my mic than my pistol
I ain’t got a pistol but there’s bodies on my mic (bullshit, you do)
(It's true!) And Joe will kill you with the bullet prose
Throw a book of sample laws towards us, get left with loopholes
Take my advice: take an 8-mile hike
I’m down by law, like the back of the jacket on Cool as Ice
Who is nice?
Why’d you ask me?
For the last time, I’m nasty — like Nas was at halftime
You fuckin know it like I know that’s a rental car
Hey sucka poet, whoever ya are
MC, uh-uh, people don’t call you
Playin' catch-up with old reissues of Audio Two
Lots of artists got bitten, I’m not kiddin'
What more can I say?
(Bob Dylan)
You play the side of the stage like a broken mic stand
You ain’t enough of an emcee to be Jarobi’s hype man!
You yelled in double negatives, and couldn’t make no noise
Why is that?
Ask yourself, homeboy
Wanna battle me while sayin' writtens, it ain’t sane
You’re better off playing games of chicken with freight trains
I’m stickin' to the weight gain, while Dr. Atkins
Sticks his dietary cock into lots of my fat friends
Now download my manhood, memorize its measurements
Then lip-sync the circumference if the head doesn’t fit
You can use your Vulcan grip on my huge bulging dick
It’s the ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, UH
(What does it all mean?) (I don’t know!) (x8)