| Sinking
|
| My heads expanding in size but my stomachs shrinking
|
| It all evens out in the end thats what I’m thinking
|
| Sing the cashregister raps ch-ching ching. |
| green backs bring the bling bling
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| Na na I may stay home. |
| rev got the ring ring ha ha hey hey poem
|
| While my answering machine screening calls. |
| hailing safe and alone
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| I want change in your message not the coin return of a payphone
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| My boys are concerned that my brains blown
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| Voices get turned away annoyed with what they say
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| If its a gay tone n they like «hey ho!» |
| then I’m all like «hey yo…»
|
| Few remain prone to spray straight shots with blood stained Glocks
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| N a face of stone to melt your ice grill it might spill!
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| N break ya Bone. |
| Thugs-in-Harmony cd presenting tape should own
|
| Replace the thrown with some Non-Prophets drop bass ON
|
| Sage is know to pull your card kid so chill
|
| I mess up plans like robbers with no skill
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| My only knowledge is the holy father SO THRILLED
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| That you dont know still what God is making martyrs outta molehills
|
| Now if your soul is fufilled holed your dills
|
| N realize youre never satisfied til after u die from overkill
|
| Im from Placiboville but we know the drill
|
| Obscene is so ill but wait for the nurse to leave so I can throw the pill.
|
| I AM NOT SICK! |
| demeneted or listed as twisted bitch
|
| Whats up with this kid
|
| Some insisted that I’m interested in running from the facts whispered
|
| In a mating call that get a busy signal from a number thats unlisted
|
| Lumberjacks are gifted. |
| when I swung the axe it slid
|
| Out of my grasp n injured this invalid, invalid
|
| Toss-offs toss their cookies while tossing salads
|
| I ghost-write the most hype love sonnet n let some whore sing the ballad
|
| (hook)
|
| IMA WHORE… A WHORE MONGER! |
| with a platinum voice
|
| IMA WHORE… A WHORE MONGER! |
| cuz I haven’t a choice
|
| Servin up this cuz (S!) echo-freaks need to eat
|
| Excrament ain’t flauntin rose peddals
|
| I breed hard rocks to impregnate stones to grow pebbles
|
| I throw kettles at pan-handlers n pot-smokers
|
| Sell insest to sexually repressed stockbrokers
|
| I turn impetant pimps to sex slaves
|
| Manifest them with radio activity from x-rays
|
| I bootleg their skeletons the next day
|
| Son u can sense my dark mood once the sky gets gray
|
| Little kids r like «lets play! |
| haha.» |
| not right then
|
| Tell them to act like men then i’ll fight them
|
| Let em hit me first then be like «strike again!»
|
| Then its my turn to see how far the limbs of little tykes bend
|
| I tied em up, with burlap rope. |
| «word?thats dope.»
|
| Manhandled the girl that lacked hope n her back broke
|
| She prefered crack cocain. |
| the heroin needed heroin never again
|
| Ladies n gentlelele gentlelele gentlelele.
|
| Im from a species of zsars through the deep seas n stars
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| Everything I do is important so I save my feces in jars
|
| N what I eat seems bizarr I deep-freeze n thaw
|
| Emcees who ain’t down by the gravities of law
|
| Now these anologies ain’t raw
|
| But when u secretly serve this well-done yall then become casualties of war
|
| Just call me Francis Allah n I was flattered
|
| Cuz I ghost-wrote the most dope love sonnet let dumb harlet sung the ballad
|
| (hook)
|
| …and I haven’t a choice n if ya snatches ain’t moist just
|
| Sing-a-long c’mon
|
| La la laaaaa. |
| la la la laaaa la la la la la
|
| La la laaaaa. |
| la la la la la la lala la la |