There's only one beer left Rappers screaming all in our ears like we're deaf. Tempt me, do a number on the label, Eat up all they MC's and drink 'em under the table like "It's on me, put it on my tab kid" However you get there, foot it, cab it, Iron Horse it, You're leaving on your face, forfeit. I crush the mic, hold it like the heat, he might toss it. Told him tell they stole it, he told her he lost it She told him "Get off it," and a bunch other more shit. Getting money, DT's be getting no new leads It's like he eating watermelon stay spitting seed after seed. It's the weed, give me some of what he's drooping off. Soon as he wake up, choking like it was whooping cough. They group been soft, First hour at the open bar and they're trooping off He went to go laugh and get some head by the side road She asked him to autograph her derriere, it read "To Wide Load, this yard bird taste like fried toad turd, love, villain" Take pride in code words Crooked eye mold nerd geek, with a cold heart Probably still be speaking in rhymes as an old fart Study how to eat to die, by the pizza guy No he's not too fly to skeet in a skeezers eye. And squeeze her thigh, maybe give her curves a feel And the same way she feel it when she flow with nerves of steel They call the super when they need their back, uhh, plumbing fixed. "How theres only one left? the pack comes in six Whatever happened to two and three?" A herb tried to slide with four and five and got caught like, "What you doing G? Don't make me have to get cutting like truancy. Matter fact not for nothing right now you and me" Looser than a pair of 'Didas I hope you brought your spare tweeters. MC's sound like cheerleaders. Rapping and dancing like Red Head Kingpin. DOOM came do the thing again no matter who be blinging. He do it for the smelly hubbies. Seeds know what time it is like it's time for Teletubbies Few can do it even fewer can sell it. Take it from the dude who wear mask like a tarded helmet. He plots shows like robberies. In and out, one, two, three, no bodies please. Run the cash and you won't get a wet sweatshirt. The mic is the shottie, nobody move, nobody get hurt. Bring heat, like ya boy done gone to war. He came in the door, and everybody on the floor. A whole string of jobs, like we on tour Every night on the score, coming to your corner store.