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These Lyrics Are Off the Chair

October 2, 2009

(This one’s for my homies in Kensington.
Sussex Court, y’all.
Don’t hate on 1X8.)

Kate Strayer. in da house, the occupants are like Whaaat…
Put your hands in the air, the professor’s like Whaaat…
Burn the roof off the club, the firemen are like Whaaaat…
Make your thumbs into a dub, the east side is like Whaaaat…

I’m back from prison, here to get you bitches in stitches.
My visionary lyrics hook you and net you like fishes.
Look away, don’t be starin’ at the glare from my riches –
Think you’ll find you go blind, it’s like a billion solar eclipses.
You think you’re really somethin’; did your mama tell you that?
She could eat ten pussies, yo mama’s so fat,
And by pussies I mean cats.
How you like that?
I got that diss premise from ALF, it was a show from the eighties.
I used to watch TV, now I be watchin’ the ladies.
I’m hotter than Hades, got more indifference than Hippocleides,
More cool flow than the Euphrates, more justice than Aristides,
More victories than Alexander, more wisdom than Anaximander,
More classical metaphor than anyone you met before.
Plus I bet no one ever hinted that your mom would eat your pet before.
You got a hard-knock life? Baby knock on my door,
Come in and I make you sweat harder than you ever sweat before.
I ask you out at three and we be in bed by four.
Fuck you, Solon; I can do math too; fuck you, Cleon, I can spew wrath too.

How you like this:
You can’t stop my flow, that’s for Tampax to do.
You can’t take my credit, that’s for Equifax to do.
You can’t hold what I toss out, that’s for trash sacks to do.
You can’t kill my livestock, that’s for anthrax to do.
Appearance-wise, Mantracker looks less crazy than you.
Maybe I’m a wack cracker but I’m more Jay-Z than you.
Let me reiterate, let me say it again,
Your shame is my game and I play it to win.
I’m a lyrical miracle.
Call me for womb service, I’ll make y’all hysterical.
I smell like money, I live like royalty off my royalties,
You smell like a toilet ‘cause you can’t afford toiletries,
Your only income’s when you find quarters.
Bitch, check out my hindquarters.
You can’t smoke this crack,
Can’t write by the light of this moon, Jack.
Think I’ll stop here; this is the best end for a diss track.

(Ohhhh snap!
She did it again…)


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