Who Writes Your Lyrics

[Verse One] I'm the flyest MC the finest MC The nicest MC oh that's boring see, there's another MPC So why you think most hip-hop sounds the same except for me? Cryptic kick shit from the crypt Sadistic lick hits with wit I'm quick Rip crickets in a wicket I'm plain wicked Thick in the rig wearing kid lipstick I wreck shit on the next shit Spit it in ya ear bit like a Q-Tip Big silly bitch wickedy witch lickety split In a sitch no dick but talk big carry a big stick So I'm a girl, yeah I'm white And I write all night with a bare swingin light On the computer alright a producer alright I produced this song So you know who you are you know you were wrong No I was not in that porn "On Golden Blonde" Got it goin on more James Bond than Sean John Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes And I Love Ferris Bueller like tchhickachickkaa [Whispered Hook Repeat 2x] Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it [Verse Two] Don't ask me who writes my lyrics Damn ya you're enamored I'm a slam ya Hotter than your can down in Alabama Where's my camera I need a Kodak moment Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam Slaughter a man on the microphone Pardon me ma'am was that part of a man Or your son I just whipped on the mic and sent home Big quick shit New York- Stockholm Kike and a Wop Wipin a cock Walkin the block drop ya jaw to jock to your sock I get that a lot yeah stop take stock Shhh let me show you what I got Made up my mind- like made it up I imagined it I don't got a mind I abandoned it in a cabinet So I could be a candidate for writin a few hits Walkin a few pits and cashin in on that shit I put out my first tape in '94 if you got one, I'll buy it I don't got one no more it was called Mitch Better get my Bunny That shit was shitty but funny I admit it was dumb but I did it with no money In 9-5 my first CD called Strictly Platinum But it didn't go Platinum it went back to them And instead of waitin for someone to put me on I started a label ran it 'til the money was gone Then came along, then was gone Money money money, don't try to make it with your songs But like Salt 'n Pepa in El Segundo we push it along (Push it!) And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP So I got egg beaters threw em back at the backpacks on 6th Ave. passin me At the Bagel Buffet planted a bomb next to Grays And when the records rained I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in LA It's all OK cuz when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record I renamed it-Pharoah Monch featuring Chubby Checker Ha ha mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar - The shit is deep