Wax Paper Envelopes

Yeah, clown ass mothafuckas Couldn't walk a fucking day over here [Verse 1:] Yo, ayo, ayo My home is where I'm getting head, that'd be New York But I'm comfortable down south, like Peter North I'm eating off these beats, I sell enough, my rent is free So I'll be banging on a triant I'm tired of work, I survive, but it hurts I'm live but I flirt with death until I arrive in the dirt Inside of my earth, my cannibalistic ways Over power, what society taught me, and in dismays I'm lost and found, down to earth, went back from off the ground While you watch sports and down beers, ideas get tossed around Walking down the block with a fist full of 'Fuck You's' Mic check, one, two, pink shirt, plum shoes You fucking faggots, I'll smack you back to the Golden Age You underworked, and overpaid, you sold your name You on the radio, but I got doper shit How are you gonna claim that you sold records, when you're not the one who wrote the shit Chorus: [samples: The ex headbanger bad like a fucker. How many emcees must get this. How many mothefucking mics, I got the grip. There's more to life, that's why I deal what I feel.] [Yeah, voice myself with microphones, DJ's and spray paint. Fuckin' faggots.] [Verse 2:] Ayo, ayo I hope you take offense to this, cause this is herb shit You won freestyle battle by spittin' written verses You disqualify, you couldn't win a free prize Singin' in the mirror, tryin' to squeeze into your Levi's Heat rise, my practice is doing shows You got a gig next month and you bookin' rehearsal studios My ruthless flows will flood your painted landscapes You made mad tapes but forgot to create a fanbase I used to tag off the staircase and dip Then eat an eighth of shrooms and make a face like "this tastes like shit" And that'll make me sick, I been sick since 1982 In real life I done more dirt than you claim to I have absolutely no respect for none of you If I kissed your girl in front of you, what the fuck are you gonna do? Peace to those who got respect for themselves And every emcee that can drop a dope record that sells Chorus: [samples: The ex headbanger bad like a fucker. How many emcees must get this. How many mothefucking mics, I got the grit. There's more to life, that's why I deal what I feel.] [Voice myself with microphones, DJ's and spray paint.]