The End

My acustic futuristic lingustic rap fabric
is a mixture of Arabic, plug 'em in
Plug 'em in
Plug 'em in, plug 'em in
Come to spread it
The world exclusive
Check it
From the underground producers
Turn your face stone like Medusa
Slap dick on a wicked bitch
Or righetous ones weaken sons
Those who burn hurt turn nuns
I rekindle the flam
With the name B.O.B.B.Y.
Make it a hobby
Smoke the honey dip got my throat groggy
You doo-doo brain dirtbag derelict dumbfuck
What the fuck is wrong with you dickhead?
Numb-nuts
Just because you made a song or two
What’s the balance due on your royalties?
Record companies spoil me
As the wiz hot oil me
Fuck that savage back up
Wu-Tang step inside the club
Niggas might act up
One potato
Smack you like the crossfader
Rap data, go back to pissy elevators
Escape the projects, livin' inside the skyscraper
Fuck that I’m takin' back the forty acres
With the cream of nature
(Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby)
(Huh)
Yo, my Eve called 1-Adam-12, I got arrested
At first she protested
But on the seventh day I rested (son I always had the power!)
Before the Midori Sour with red cherries
Hereditary trait, seeking salvation like the Cranberries
Wrote Murder with Angela Lansbury often
Til my biological clock stops and my casket falls
We sell tix like Boston basketball
C-arson was askin' y’all
Is Ras Kass the last to fall victim for wearin' no mask at all?
No gimmicks, just me bein' me
But you ain’t bendin' or offendin' me