Wax Paper Envelopes
Yeah, clown ass mothafuckas
Couldn't walk a fucking day over here
[Verse 1:]
Yo, ayo, ayo
My home is where I'm getting head, that'd be New York
But I'm comfortable down south, like Peter North
I'm eating off these beats, I sell enough, my rent is free
So I'll be banging on a triant <--(?) like a fucking MPC
I'm tired of work, I survive, but it hurts
I'm live but I flirt with death until I arrive in the dirt
Inside of my earth, my cannibalistic ways
Over power, what society taught me, and in dismays <--(?)
I'm lost and found, down to earth, went back from off the ground
While you watch sports and down beers, ideas get tossed around
Walking down the block with a fist full of 'Fuck You's'
Mic check, one, two, pink shirt, plum shoes
You fucking faggots, I'll smack you back to the Golden Age
You underworked, and overpaid, you sold your name
You on the radio, but I got doper shit
How are you gonna claim that you sold records, when you're not the one who wrote the shit
Chorus:
[samples: The ex headbanger bad like a fucker. How many emcees must get this. How many mothefucking mics, I got the grip. There's more to life, that's why I deal what I feel.]
[Yeah, voice myself with microphones, DJ's and spray paint. Fuckin' faggots.]
[Verse 2:]
Ayo, ayo
I hope you take offense to this, cause this is herb shit
You won freestyle battle by spittin' written verses
You disqualify, you couldn't win a free prize
Singin' in the mirror, tryin' to squeeze into your Levi's
Heat rise, my practice is doing shows
You got a gig next month and you bookin' rehearsal studios
My ruthless flows will flood your painted landscapes
You made mad tapes but forgot to create a fanbase
I used to tag off the staircase and dip
Then eat an eighth of shrooms and make a face like "this tastes like shit"
And that'll make me sick, I been sick since 1982
In real life I done more dirt than you claim to
I have absolutely no respect for none of you
If I kissed your girl in front of you, what the fuck are you gonna do?
Peace to those who got respect for themselves
And every emcee that can drop a dope record that sells
Chorus:
[samples: The ex headbanger bad like a fucker. How many emcees must get this. How many mothefucking mics, I got the grit. There's more to life, that's why I deal what I feel.]
[Voice myself with microphones, DJ's and spray paint.]