Plenty of young cats still got affection for ill spitters,
hair of the dog got good reason to feel bitter,
plenty of real bigots burn bridges and meal tickets,
I ain't gotta be specific, you feel me if you live it,
and if you live it, you know this shit is not a gimmick,
the pinnacle, steady sending pretenders to the clinic,
I pick 'em out, spot the beast, hit it
with the right crossbow and eyes glowing like I'm Riddick.
Politically speaking, institutions all classist, racist,
that's why I'm on my Cassius Clay shit,
but basket cases took advantage of the agitation
to get you caught up in the distraction matrix,
it ain't happening. Is it my rapping or my accent?
Is it my parentage or my passion? Facts is
I'm tryna get a message past this machine, fuck faxes,
masticate on that shit and take it backwards.
Like Lee Harvey, they ain't bodying jack.
I can't see hardly, it's too foggy in back.
Yo it's a Cheech party, word to Tommy and Black,
sorry to be tardy, had to cop me some wraps,
and I pity the fool tryna box me with raps,
asking if Fellow get busy like asking if Rocky can scrap,
and you'll probably get smacked for even coming with that puffery,
hiphop is my drug, and I ain't in recovery.
Call it welfare wookiee or call it Bobby Brown,
I call it backyard boogie, that's where I chop 'em down.
You got your glass piece packing the kush?
I'm just ripping newspaper, picking African bush,
but now the clouds are clearer, I'm dropping like the value of Italian lira
before the euro I fucks with Al-Jazeera,
word to my brother whose child is Kyra,
the style a tier above the Portugal, from Macau to Madeira.