Lyrics
c dont panic but ya spits are rancid, couldn't get a flow if you fell in the atlantic
understand when the beat drops ya through, everyone in the area drops to number 2
but for real dog ya flows straight reek, when i'm done on the mic ya name'll be antique
call up three six mafia and bust a free, but ya chances of makin it in memphis, bleek
now hes crying, and the tears are staining, put em to good use, make a watercolor painting
make it of a dude rippin ya soul from ya mic, and if you wanted reference, 5'9's my height
so do you spit like a deaf retard by choice? i'm surprised ya microphone hasn't muted ya voice
18 of his priests stood in rejoice cause on his 18th birthday he found out he likes boys?
