| It’s the sun toucher |
| Saliva’s live as a lava rupture |
| Bison I’ll psycho crush ya |
| Mind sight illuminate the night like Luxor |
| Supreme being |
| Meanin' I’m Elohimin' |
| I may knock your Reebok but I’ll stop and pop and leave you bleedin' |
| We live from that zone where only real niggas roam |
| I’ll take a lot of shots of Henny while creatin' a new poem |
| Literary, visionary, legendary, already |
| Prisoner of my pen I need mo' beats up in my commissary |
| Attempt a jail break, only if my verse is great |
| Receipt a couple of mo' times to make the flow is great |
| Then I’m out |
| Grab my hoodie grab my gat |
| For any new Zimmerman’s I’m first to gun clap |
| Yeah, I’m armed and dangerous, a rebel rap terrorist |
| My middle finger linger for those that get to see us perish |
| From L.A. ghettos to every ghetto in the world |
| The last will be first, stay strong that’s my word |
| We never stop, that’s the gift that God gave us |
| Voice of Paul Robeson, vision like Ozzy Davis |
| The solar in Gaboze for these demons and you haters |
| My knuckle game will lean ya, rearrange your whole demeanor |
| My hooks is way cold but my kicks is even meaner |
| Knotty blows will have your internal bleedin' flowin' like Katrina |
| I’m the product of Cedrick and Sena, bonafide leader |
| Lines are legendary like the uniform on Derek Jeter |
| Punchlines so brolic gotta rock a wife beater |
| Bitches eatin' out the palm of my hand, the bird feeder |
| I don’t ride with the nina while I’m smokin' on Keisha |
| Cause after Nina ride me I’ll be pokin' on Keisha |
| Well known speaker got me bumpin' through your speakers |
| I have been the One before Kris became The Teacher |
| Runnin' the game while you chillin' in the bleachers |
| This year, triplin' the prices on the features |
| The avant garde where ever my voice reaches |
| Your style ain’t impregnable, inevitable breaches |
| You poor rappers are so facetious |
| But seriously, sweeter than them George peaches |
| Cut from a cloth who practice what he preaches |
| Suited up for war and stormin' all your beaches |
| Your movement is comin' to a halt, tires screechin' |
| 'Bout time you all retire, you weak bitches |
| You world is an oyster, ladies love pearls |
| Got the Mausberg on deck in case I have a little girl |
| I’m part analytical, learnin' to think critical |
| Either leave a mark or the people won’t remember you |
| The Dream didn’t die with Martin Luther or Malcolm by the hands of they shooters |
| What we lost were recruiters for the revolution |
| All we left with is pollution |
| Contribute to the problem well let’s talk about solutions |
| Niggas gettin' lost in my music |
| Startin' to think higher for success, I aspire |
| Said they wanted dope, I confessed as the supplier |
| This is king’s court I address you as a squire |
| The better that you get the more these niggas wanna try ya |
| Keep talkin' shit, I’mma pass right by ya |
| I write like James Booker play piano in the N. O |
| Police wanna charge me for assaultin' instrumentals |
| I’m guilty |
| Yo |
| Right hand in the air, left hand on that book |
| Two fingers in the kitty, damn, that’s all it took |
| They callin' me a beast, well grab me by the collar |
| Salty about a verse, but here dogs holla |
| Go ahead and get your bark on |
| Good on any corner I feel like I wanna park on |
| Hop out, post up with an old timer |
| Back room evangelist, part time moon shiner |
| He keeps a .45 tucked |
| Said, «Plots moves let fools worry 'bout luck |
| I offer this advice when you down to pay the price |
| Stick 'em for every cent so you don’t have to pay 'em twice.» |
| Told him, «Thanks.» Tipped hat and strolled off |
| Nikita Koloff |
| Russian sicko that bottle of George Dickle you squares bound to get throwed off |
| I’m the alarm if you dosed off |
| Got bowling ball sized nuts and not an ounce worth of fucks |
| To be given, your agenda is hidden |
| Pay it no attention |
| They pokin' at my cage tryin' to get a mention |
| Don’t get your head bit off |
| I’m a monster |
| God damn. Can I say something? Somethin' honest? We hard than a motherfucker! |
| Hahahah. Anyway, it’s your boy, Bishop Lamont. Woogie, don’t stop the record |
| yet, I want all the MC’s out there to go for theirs. So just let the beat rock. |
| All my MC’s go for yours! Off the top, no writtens. Nigga |