I’m a menace to society,
But girls in biker shorts are so fly to me.
After the date, I’mma want to do the wild thing…
You’re talkin’ lobster? I’m thinkin’ Burger King.
Put this in your CD-ROM:
www dot Canibus dot com.
You can find me on the Internet, talkin’ to chicks
That was sweatin’ me off the ‘Music Makes Me High’ remix.
I be talkin’ mad trash, tryin to get ’em to laugh.
See, if I click and drag long enough I’ll get the ass…
Money…really wasn’t part of the rap.
Paid…was havin’ people start to clap.
I wake you up and as I stare in your face, you seem stunned.
Remember me? The one you got your idea from?
Y’all niggas ain’t ILL…you’re ILLogical.
When I was born, my mama’s pussy had the new car smell.
I’m not sayin I’m a pothead, cause I’m not.
I’m just sayin that I smoke a lot.
And how ‘bout the non-blunt rollin’ females
That always fucks it up ’cause they don’t wanna break their Lee nails?
Hits from the bong
Make me feel like Cheech,
And I’m kickin’ it wit’ Chong.
Infrareds on little people standing with some big heads,
I was Captain Kirk, walkin’ with a black t-shirt.
LAPD, the nurse asked did my knee hurt?
I was in pain, little Martians tryin’ ta take my brain,
Hospitals came, detectives wrote down my name.
I was to blame, my life never been the same.
A true story; I tell ya, it’ll never bore me.
My classmate died, my other friend named Cory
Drinkin’ 40s, he jumped out the project window,
Stabbed himself with a yellow number 2 pencil.
Destiny made a mistake and gave my fate to someone else.
Friends: how many have ‘em?
How long before they split like atoms?
Don’t ask me, but what I do stand behind
Is someone havin’ your back seems hard to find.
Shorty, let me tell you about my only vice:
It has to do with lots of lovin’, and it ain’t nuttin’ nice.
I’m on some tax-free shit by any means,
Whether bound to hit scheme or some counterfeit C.R.E.A.M.
I’m like an eclipse on a Friday the 13th,
With black cats and Haley’s Comet,
Blazin’ blunts in my driveway…
I don’t respect killers, I respect O.G. knowledge,
Codes of the streets got new rules, but no guidance.
Lessons, detrimental to a young disciple;
Folks, take care of your brothers, niggas do as I do.
Keep your enemies close, where they can see you.
It’s not your enemy who get you, it’s always your own people.
I am the manifestation of study,
NOT the manifestation of money.
Therefore, I advance through thought,
NOT what’s manufactured and bought.
…Cops just surrounding me with pistols everywhere.
They put me in the backseat of their car handcuffed,
Pushed out them chests like they’re big rough and tough.
A cop come and said ‘You’ll never sell your guns now.’
I said ‘It doesn’t matter, you’ll sell them anyhow.
You take the guns from me, you sell them for a fee;
Anyway you put it, they’ll get in the city!’
We can’t complain for this borrowed time;
So don’t misuse yours, cause you can’t borrow mine.
We live in an era where it ain’t about dope rhymes.
When beef is online, and how big is your co-sign…
Every night I pray to God: ‘Please, no more wack MC’s.’
You pout like a trout in a drought…can’t get out.
You want to scream, but fish can’t shout.
Yo, where the teachers went, with all that pro-black shit?
Where all the conscious niggas, who used to chat like this?
See, I remember yesterday when y’all was Gods and Earths,
Egyptians and metaphysicists on the verge of giving birth
To Understanding, and planting seeds that grow.
Now everybody’s on that bullshit about killing and so.
Shakespeare’s gone, don’t even think about it.
She’s not impressed by your fancy car.
She got a body so she’s snotty and she don’t care who you are.
So don’t get mad and dis her reputation
Callin’ her a floozy, any conversation.
Mad grammar, backstabber, girls they wanna be her.
But like Stevie Wonder, none of y’all can see her!
Tell ya mama to stop flirtin’ boy, I’m not a good step-pop.
I interrupt your little session…and wreck shop.
Look here: “Mo’ money, mo’ problems,” my ass.
You’s a naive cat if you still believe that.
I was always taught my do’s and don’ts:
For do’s I did, and for don’ts, I said I won’t.
A prejudiced man is of a devil mentality.
These are words of a wise man, wisdom;
Take a taste and erase the racism.
I seen her in the subway, on my way to Brooklyn.
“Hello, good lookin, is this seat tooken?”
On the A Train, pickin at her brain,
I couldn’t get her number, I couldn’t get her name.
I said, “I still like your style and fashion,
But I hate your hot sadiddy attitude wit a passion.
Is it because brothers like to hawk a lot?
Is it because your sign don’t talk a lot?”
She turned away, no play, I said, “OK,
You don’t really look good, I hope you have a bad day.”
For what it’s worth, I’ve been a hip-hopper from birth.
Try to disrespect, and get your ass played up like a Smurf.
Don’t you like when the winter’s gone,
And all of a sudden it starts gettin’ warm?
The trees and the grass start lookin’ fresh,
And the sun and sky be lookin’ their best…
Look: if I shoot you, I’m brainless,
But if you shoot me, then you’re famous.
What’s a nigga to do?
Keep bustin about where you rest, and what you own, and what you drive.
So the day some niggaz come for you, I’m really not surprised.
Ain’t nothin’ like hip-hop music;
You like it cause you choose it.
Most DJ’s won’t refuse it,
A lotta sucka MC’s misuse it.
The poor get worked, the rich get richer,
The world gets worse, do you get the picture?
The poor gets dead, the rich get depressed,
The ugly get mad, the pretty get stressed.
The ugly get violent, the pretty get gone,
The old get stiff, the young get stepped on.
Whoever told you that “it was all good” lied,
So throw your fists up if you not satisfied.
I won’t say I’m the baddest, or portray that role,
But I’m in the top 2, and my father’s gettin’ old.
Lemonade was a popular drink and it still is;
I get more props and stunts than Bruce Willis.
Truth had me up against the ropes
And semi-conscious without no boxing skills.
There’s so many wack rappers out here, I don’t know where to aim at.
Brothers ain’t half-steppin…they’re walking backwards.
This country of ours was built on violence;
If your ass got in the way, you was killed in silence.
And these been the ways since back in the days:
Just ask the Indians or the African slaves.
Some girls barely speak, but always askin’ for a dollar.
Y’all really think Ms. Shakur, or Ms. Wallace,
Or Ms. Mizell from out in Hollis
Wouldn’t exchange the love and fame
Attached to their loved ones’ names
Just to have ‘em still alive in their arms?
I admit skinz ain’t a reason to lose friends,
But then again I didn’t know. Sorry.
Lyrics are weak, like clock radio speakers.
You can’t bite my style cause my style ain’t a style that is a style so I can go buckwild.”
Nigga hit me on the Sidekick sayin’ he gon’ shoot me:
Soundin’ like a real groupie.
He a bitch with a heater like Lara Croft,
He gonna get his ass wet like Noah’s Ark.
Got the choppa won’t hesitate to squeeze,
Get his ass cut like a Whopper with Cheese.