Lyrics Just An Emcee II - Spose

Just An Emcee II

Live from where the sun comes up
Yes yes y’all
Freak freak y’all
Turn it up y’all
Wells, Maine
Spizzy Spose y’all
Small world y’all
Prep Dank y’all turn it down
I’m like the broke Young Hova
No Range Rover
But still hot when serving people — Anna Kournikova
No fancy restaurant twenty-dollar entrees
It is Wendy’s, it is Friendly’s, it is empty, it is gay
No Tyrone Biggums crack rocks where my pot at
A movie director, man, I don’t get shot at
Unburly rhyme-satirist in Hurley and Atticus
Never up early counting cash on my abacus
Weed leaf rustler, window-shopper customer
In other words you could say I’m «not a not a hustler»
I rapped for six years but still anonymous
No bling, dollar-less and a bad economist
Life’s Lauryn Hill, it’s killing me softly
I got no cream you could call me black coffee
My finances more fucked than a used condom
Stocks fall like autumn, greetings from rock bottom
But they’re ain’t no fake pimping
Thugging thugging gangster gangster gayness
I’m Beyonce-less and not on the A-list
I know some bailiffs and I’m not proud of it
But I used to love weed, and well, I still love it!
Freak ex-geek no powder puff pipsqueek
No rough speak with scuffed sneaks, yeah it’s me
Just an emcee in a dirty white tee
Got trees from Mike V that be unsightly
Sometimes life’s a drag
Sometimes it’s a bong rip
I’ma live now put my money where my songs is
I’m still gnarly clam baking that Bob Marley
Till it’s not even funny anymore — Chris Farley
I’m AIDs ill and malaria sick
With no hilarious schtick or gimmick to get your trick
I’m hoping being honest gets into these arenas
And my tracks flood the streets like Hurricane Katrina
I’m not here to be the hardest or act all retarded
I’m just an emcee man, a rapper, an artist
I don’t bling or blang or sling, but my slang
Got you and your mang going ape like orangoutangs
Not a wack, weak wigger, wannabe thug
No kilos of drugs are hidden in my Lugz
But make no istake still I puff cake
I’m bony but not phony
Baked but not fake
It’s all gravy, baby, I’m still porking ladies
But I don’t do drive-bys in next year’s Mercedes
These are my thoughts, I don’t exaggerate my life
If you carry the mic there’s a stereotype
But I was born and bred for this babbling business
Rap words like you getting scrabble for Christmas
No Cristal bottle or models with swelled racks
I don’t tote gats or sell crack, I just rap