Lyrics

- VERSE -Down with the king, the pres and prime minister/the clergy men and all them swine sinister/shit is uneven like prime intigers/let's make incisions, apply vinegar/administer vendetta when I spit a verse/process thoughts every second by the gigahertz/make these rich crackers say "Gee willikers"/a hoard of villagers surround their perimeter/I'm so high, you need an altimeter/to reach a mindstate that's even similar/my motormouth roars like 12 cylinders/I dot my i's and my L's are perpendicular/I cross my T's and breeze through these syllables/highjack the industry like John Dillenger/life's a bitch, bet I stick a dick in her/don't want a fanbase, I want some listeners/America is full of narrow minded prisoners/every word I speak, treated like a visitor/never gullible, be an inquisitor/don't seek permission from a crooked ass commisioner/- VERSE -It's Saturday night, the party just begun/I'm already drunk off my ass tryin' to have a little fun/swinging two blunts like sparklers/lookin' for the hottest chick on the dance floor, to get on top of her/when I drink too much, niggaz - they can't stand me/I show my ass worse than O.D.B. did at the Grammy's/I got an evil streak that lives inside of me/calm one sec, the next - I'm up beatin' your ass violently/quit eyein' me son, why I think you tryin' me?/let's see if you can breathe at the bottom of the sea/whack emcees sweatin' techniques/duck down & hidin' behind cliched races of whack ass beats/y'all 'bout to get paid a visit by the lyrical police/in one last effort to restore Hip-Hop's peace/so if you're rhyming and you get rushed by twenty armed men/it's not because you suck, just fit the description/- VERSE -- VERSE -Two years ago Mr. Henry's mind/got sick of rappers' empty rhymes/so I said this rhyme I'm about to say/and you either down to stay/or get up out the way/Yo, down with these manufactured, bogus-ass counterfit/make believe, wannabe, self-elected, coward-bitch/"kings" of the south, "kings" of the NYC/4th grade writing skills, unenlightening/record label puppets, y'all could never be conscious/you ain't runnin' shit but popularity contests/let's have a little talk, pull up a chair and be honest/man I'm dead serious like a terrorist bomb threat/if you're a king, what kind of legacy you leaving?/you ain't lead no revolution where the enemy's retreating/if you're a king, why you pimpin' the community?/you're all about dollars, that's the difference between you and me/if you're a king, why you want World War IV?/we're out here poor, and you get more, more, more/money in the bank, you ain't nothing but a celebrity/a five year fad, what a fucked up legacy/