Watch out mister I’m about to throw down.
Step back sister I’m about to throw up.
I’m about to show up and bring my beat box.
Era, hiccup, I’ma pick up my beat box.
Stop. How come all the people on the radio are crazy
Thinking that they fucking with the alphabet like jay-z
Or eminem when him and him be swimming in a wave, gee.
So that the others just don’t phase me.
Go fuck yourself if you tell me that you don’t like their music
Hell I don’t give two shits, wait make it three. You know what? I don’t give four shits.
And I can’t wait til they do more shit.
Stop, I was only kidding ‘bout the part where I said fuck you.
Hell I don’t even know you. You could be a sweetheart. Shucks, you
Might even be the sweetest person who would ever eat cocks.
Naaah. I’m just fuckin’ with my beat box.
So… d’you ever notice anything you say that’s put to rhythm
Somehow goes down easier? I’m talking beef or schism,
Grief or jism, sidney moncrief, religion…
With beats we’re lief, clay pigeons
Put the proper gait to it and no one takes offense
… well, maybe just a smidgen.
But still, isn’t pleasure measured by the fissures in the sheet rock?
Wasn’t the universe the first to curse and spit its heat shocks?
Hasn’t clever ever been a lever of the fleet fox?
Wasn’t rhythm with’em when your parents made their feet knock?
Ask me I think it’s cause we’re all a bunch of meat clocks.
So that is why I brought my beat box.
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