Lights out! Might, now! We gotta fight. Dynamite, my style. Hostile, because I don’t write. Why these dykes always act like they got my child? Why now, why me? Why every time I try to rap these faggots ass cats try to treat me grimy? 5 times 5 when I speak. Add it together, you get me. Magick together with history. Sadness forever within me. I’m glad that the pleasure is empty. How, all? Why, all? Why everybody on my balls? Is it the nudity? Because you can’t fuck with me, musically

Maybe I’m not a failure
Maybe I’m not a sailor
Baby, I’m not a teller
I want to be all you need, all you need, all you need

Mr. Marcus with the mouth of a bitch that missed her market. This shit’s retarded. So, Ms. Steffans, can we keep rapping and I keep repping? Your name is Honey. Funny, because my name is money. In God We Trust, so I offer up a lot of stuff that ain’t boss of the stuff. One, like a Pill when you want to get right. Midnight. Like the skill or I’m done. Then again, I’m done, so where your Windex Wipes? Why do I have to write? I got questions, but Radio Shack has answers. But it’s SEGA, back to my answer. I black like cancer

Maybe I’m not a failure
Maybe I’m not a sailor
Baby, I’m not a teller
I want to be all you need, all you need, all you need

Vengeance for the slaves, my adrenaline is in a cage. Wish to be locked up but I don’t want to go there. I wish to get a chick knocked up with no hair. Because she rocks a weave. She’s gotten to me, we’ve gotten free. Shit, bitches. I wish to go to jail. So one of y’all might die, word to the right eye. Oh my God, too much sense. I grew up with it. Rapping is not a hobby. It’s more like me in a lobby. Volleying for troops. Not Donald and them, but I see what it do. The Paul Wall, gothically. Y’all won’t stop with me. Why?