"Yo I don't hang out with those guys, man, I ain't got nothing to do with those dudes."
"Wait a minute, I saw your female with 'em, too. What's up with her? I've been hearin' that she been givin' that stuff out to ALL them graffiti guys."
"Yo, shut the fuck up, Chico, man!"
"I could paint three of those murals for some of that ass."
"Professor, what's another word for 'pirate treasure'?"
"Well, I think it's 'booty'. Booty, booty, that's what it is."
Yes, I got more bounce than the fucking bump
And then you want to know why
Because I'm motherfuckin' truckin'
I'm in the pocket just like Grady Tate
Got supplies of beats so you don't have to wait
Cause I'm the master blaster, drinking up the shasta
My voice sounds sweet cause it has to
So light a match to my ass cause I'm blowin' up
I'd like to thank the people for just showin' up
But now I want y'all to move it
Put your point on the floor and just prove it
And I'm smurfin', not rehearsin', gettin' live, y'all
A little puffy, so you know what, I'm doin' right
Cause that's the kind of frame of mind I'm in
I got this feelin' that it's back again
So don't touch me, cause I'm electric
And if you touch me, you'll get shocked
You got, you got, you got, you got, you got
You've got the boomin' system, but it's sloshing out doo-doo
You think it's chocolate milk, but it's watered down Yoo-hoo
I've been through many times in which I thought I might lose it
The only thing that saved me, has always been music
We've got our own studio, the Son of the G
It's no question, life's been good to me
Cause life ain't nothing but a good groove
A good mixtape to put you in the right mood
This one goes out to my man, the Groove Merchant
Coming through with beats for which I've been searching
Like two sealed copies, of expansions
I'm like Tom Vu with yachts and mansions
The logo I sport is the face of the monkey
Union made, Ben Davis-quality, it's no junk, see?
My chrome is shining, just like an icicle
I ride around town in my low-rider bicyle
So many wack emcees, you get the TV bozak
Ain't even gonna call out your names, cause you're so wack
And one big oaf, who's faker than plastic
A dictionary definition of the word spastic
You should have never started something that you couldn't finish
Cause writin' rhymes to me is like Popeye to spinach
I'm bad ass, move ya' fat ass, cause you're wack, son
Dancing around like you think you're Janet Jackson
Thought you could walk on me to get some ground to walk on
I'll put the rug out under your ass as I talk on
I'll take you out like a sniper on a roof
Like an emcee at the fever in the DJ booth
With your headphones strapped, you're rockin' rewind/pause
Tryin' to figure out what you can do to go for yours
But like a pencil to a paper, I got more to come
One after another, you can all get some
So you better take your time, and meditate on your rhyme
Cause your shit'll be stinkin' when I go for mine
And that's right, y'all, don't get uptight, y'all
You can't say shit because you're biting what I write, y'all
And that's wrong, y'all, over the long haul
You can't cut the mustard when you're fronting it all
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