3-O-Clock

[Hook] Three o' clock in the morning Dirty time to be in Port Authority Terminal Alone in New York City [Verse 1: Pharoahe Monch] You are in need of deliverance from discriminative images And unusual amount of musical carcinogens Here’s an adrenaline boost with timberland boot sentiments I vegetate in vaginal canals (No venison) That is V for victory, averbally indicative of why I haven’t been inundated Shit, I demonstrated before that, I see the beat as a clitoris And my tongue as the stimulation that’s vibrating from slow to vigorous It moves with the finesse and the smoov-ness Even inside the grooves of a record Check it, check it again And check the metaphors, make sure they’re makin’ sense and then TwitPic it like courtside Knicks tickets Gifted with algorithms, terrific with quantum physics Merciless with the words, your verses are quite horrific And poor morally, I never support ‘em Caught ‘em in the Port Authority off guard and fought 'em orally Renegade 13, who want W.A.R.? At three o’ clock in the mornin’ My spawn escaping the grips of Satan, my supremacy is Bourne My identity is Jason Which you are now currently hearing, I recite it in verbatim No ultimatum, played ‘em, laid ‘em out on the curb Made ‘em wait before I slayed 'em when I served ‘em with the verbs at [Hook] [Verse 2: Prince Po] Clever and pretty young girl, caught up in the zone Trapped in the jaws of poverty, drug abuse in the home Three BFFs already pregnant, her every move is alone Seventeen and battered with thoughts of getting to put two in the dome Stressed and ready to just end it, suspended in disgrace Hate to descend her, her faith heavily contended Bend it over backwards, rend it, lower it to, even to extend it, fam Like a ninja on a binge for vengeance, man Grabbed the stash and cash and ran away Thought she had to mash, professin’ out of the gate Two and a half days later she’ll be in the land of hate The big city is full of dreams, but you gon’ learn today Jumped on the bus, cap low, yo she blended quickly Ended by a vacation, a parking lot attendant Waving a Mets pendant, soul crying, lying like a remnant So tiring, so inspiring it feels to be implemented No guidance, but her science refused to stay down But wait! Everybody knows you don’t go Greyhound, it’s time to shake The service is the verse, but first, with time to break Bust violently, it’s pulling in the gate Strolling through the terminal, dude saw the pomade Got up in the air, painted a picture looking great Not she’s out there on the stroll, lost, pussy on a plate With demented sickness, substituting cookies for the cake [Hook]