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Yo I don't hang out with those guys
Man I ain't got nothing to do with those dudes
Man I saw your female with them too, what's up wit her?
I been hearin' that she's been giving that stuff out to all them graffiti guys
Yo shut the fuck up Chico man
I'd paint three of those murals for some of that ass
Professor, what's another word for pirate treasure?
Why I think it's booty? That's what it is
Yes, I got more bounce to the fucking bumpin'
And you wanna know why because I'm mother fucking truckin'
I'm in the pocket just like Grady Tate
I got supplies of beats, so you don't have to wait
'Cuz I'm the master blaster, drinking up the shasta
My voice sounds sweet 'cuz it hasta
So light a match to my ass 'cuz I'm blowin' up
I'd like thank you people for just showin' up
But now I want y'all to move it
Put your point on the floor and just prove it
Said I'm smurfin' not rehearsin', getting live y'all
A little puffy so you know what I'm doing right
'Cuz that's the kind of frame of mind I'm in
I got this feelin' and it's back again
So don't touch me, 'cuz I'm electric
And if you touch me you'll get shocked
Well I think it's booty, booty
You got, you got, you got, you got, you got
You got the boomin' system but it's blastin' out doo
Do you think it's chocolate milk, but it's watered down yoo hoo
I been through many times for which I thought I might lose it
The only thing that saved me, has always been music
We got our studio, it's under the G, it's no question
Life's been good to me 'cuz life ain't nothing but a good groove
A good mix tape to put you in the right mood
Said, this one goes out to my man the groove merchant
Coming through with beats, for which I been searchin'
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 bicycle
You think you know what you doin' [Incomprehensible]
Booty, booty, booty
[Incomprehensible]
So many wack MC's, you get that TV bozak
Ain't even gonna call out your names 'cuz ya' so wack
And one big oaf, who's faker than plastic
A dictionary definition of the word spastic
You shoulda' never started something you couldn't finish
'Cuz writing rhymes to me is like Popeye to spinach
I'm bad ass, move ya' fat ass, 'cuz your wack son
Dancing around like you think your Janet Jackson
Thought you could walk on me to get some kinda' walk
I'll pull a rug out from underneath your ass as I talk on
I'll take you out like a sniper on a roof
Like an MC at the fever in the DJ Booth
With your head phones strapped, ya' rocking rewind pause
Trying to figure out what you to 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
'Cuz ya shit'll be stinking when I go for mine
And that's right y'all, don't get uptight y'all
You say shit when I bite, when I write y'all
And that's wrong y'all, over the long haul
You can't cut the mustard when fronting it on, it on
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