Тональность: C minor
Intro 1
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Verse 1
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MC lose his life tonight, Lord
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I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why
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Oh Lord, father don't let him bury me,
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whoa
Verse 2
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I haunt MCs like Mephistopheles,
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bringing swords of Damocles
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Secret service keep a close watch
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as if my name was Kennedy
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Abstract raps simple with
a street format
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Gaze into the sky and measure
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Check out the retrograde motion,
kill the notion
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Of biting and recycling and calling
it your own creation
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I feel like Rockwell,
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somebody's watching me
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I got no privacy whether on land or at sea
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An d for you biting zealots,
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your raps are cacophonic
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Hypocrite, critic,
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but deep inside you wish you had the pop hit
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a refugee come to your turf
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And take over the earth
Verse 3
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are the type of fly rhymes
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That can only get down with my crew
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to take lines or bite rhymes
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We'll show you how the refugees do
Verse 4
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Yeah, yeah behold,
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as my odes, manifold on your rhymes
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Two MCs can't occupy the same space
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It's against the laws of physics
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So weep as your sweet dreams
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break up like Eurythmics
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Rap rejects my tape deck,
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Whether Jew or gen tile,
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I rank top percentile
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Many styles,
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more powerful than gamma rays
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My grammar pays, like Carlos Santana
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plays "Black Magic Woman"
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So while you fuming,
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I'm consuming mango juice under Polaris
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You just embarrassed cause it's
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your last tango in Paris
Verse 5
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And even after all my logic
and my theory
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I add a "Motherfucker" so you
ignant niggas hear me
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Crew remember take notes,
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as I sow my rap oats
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And for you biting zealots,
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here's a quote
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Another MC lose his life to
Verse 6
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night,
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Lord
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I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why
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Oh Lord, father don't let him bury me,
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whoa
Verse 7
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You can try but you can't
divide the tribe
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These cats can't rap,
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mister author I feel no Vibe
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The magazine says the girl
should have went solo
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The guys should stop rapping
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- vanish like Menudo
Took it to the heart,
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but every actor plays his part
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As long as someone was listening,
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I knew it was a start
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For me to get my chance,
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grab my pen and revamp
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Do a cameo while every
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cause you running out of luck- a
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I'm gonna get you sucka
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While you munching at your luncheon
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I'll be planning your as sassination,
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then hit you like the Dutchman
Verse 8
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I compress sound sets
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Then drop vocals on my 456 Ampex
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Bring terror to the shop of horror
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As she cry, "mi amor," the
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phantom dies in the opera
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And to the younguns who
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And kill six days a week,
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then rest on the Sabbath
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Violence ain't necessary,
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unless you provoke me
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Then get buried like the great Mussolini
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And for you biting zealots,
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your rap styles are relics
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Eb
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No matter who you damage, you're still a false
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prophet
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