... And I ain't even see the movie.
I'm the rap Holyfield.
I stay gettin' "bitten".
Did I spit the line before?
Okay. It was written.
With pen and paper, I get so graceful and smitten, I can take my written to dinner, and pay to hit it.
My verse is like, "The dollar is paper, and I'm paper. Am I bi?"
I fold my verse in two, and call it using spanish fly.
Locked up, AND I'm high.
Destiny glued my hand to her thigh.
Damn, I'm fly.
My verse is like, "DAMN, guy! Answer my question! Am I BI?!"
I said, "You're "straight" up, F*CKIN' ILL."
And I make free music, so keep f*ckin' STILL.
Caught chlamydia, but I keep F*CKIN' still.
I get it up like a Rude Boy.
Trust my skills.
Lust is ill.
I give my verse a couple bills.
It hugs me for being so f*ckin' ill...
My bars are Mr. Popper's Penguins...
My beats are Mr. Popper's Penguins...
I get it poppin, I'm poppin, I get it poppin.
I'm Mr. Poppers, let's get it. I get it poppin.
I'm cooler than a penguin's armpits...
?Me and my penguins get it poppin'. I'm poppin'. Let's get it.?
When my ear hits the ring floor?
I hear myself get asked what I sing for.
I give a mean roar.
My roar, demeans roars.
But in a fight? I go down, like 3 Doors.
I should swing more.
Or maybe I should think less.
I'm so high, I could drink meth at a pee test.
I'm locked up and sober, prescribed lithium again, eyes lookin' pretty slim again.
An idiot to them, but them are idiots, so, then again.
Jamarris was real.
Yellow is caution.
I stare at the thought, and I further glare at being nauseous.
I'm on prison precaution.
My friends are my beasts...
SH*T. My BEATS.
My brothers are my bars, and both of them f*ck with me always.
I get 'em stuck in your mind's hallway.
Echo like Boyd.
Never light noise.
Karma's vagina is extra tight and moist...
Somewhere between genius and pathetic...
Only fellow geniuses would get it...
Everybody's not a genius, so forget it...
So give a pathetic genius some credit...