Living off borrowed time, the clock tick faster,
That'd be the hour they knock the slick blaster,
Dick Dastardly and Muttley with sick laughter,
A gun, fight and they come to cut the mixmaster.
I-C-E cold, nice to be old,
Y2G stee, twice to threefold,
He sold scrolls, lo and behold,
Know who's the illest ever like the greatest story told.
Keep your glory, gold and glitter,
For half, half of his niggas'll take him out the picture,
The other half is rich and it don't mean shit-ta,
Villain: a mixture between both with a twist of liquor,
Chase it with more beer, taste it like truth or dare,
When he have the mic, it's like the place get like, «Aww yeah!»
It's like they know what's 'bout to happen,
Just keep ya eye out, like, «Aye, aye, captain!»
Is he still a fly guy clapping if nobody ain't hear it?
And can they testify from inner spirit
In living? The true gods
Giving y'all nothing but the lick like two broads,
Got more lyrics than the church got «Ooh Lord!»s,
And he hold the mic and your attention like two swords,
Or even one with two blades on it.
Hey you, don't touch the mic like it's AIDS on it!
It's like the end to the means,
Fucked type of message that sends to the fiends,
That's why he brings his own needles
And get more cheese than Doritos, Cheetos or Fritos,
Slip like Freudian,
Your first and last step to playing yourself like accordion.
When he had the mic, you don't go next,
Leaving pussy cats like, “Why hoes need Kotex?”
Exercise index, won't need Bowflex,
And won't take the one with no skinny legs like Joe Tex.