payday monsanto – euphamizzum lyrics
“if you missed it”
“he’s hideous”+
“he’s beautiful”+
“not concerned with the platinum status”
“and, he is mine”+
“don’t twist it”
“unh”
“it’s consistently consistent”
no, i’m not the best, and i don’t aim to top the rest, just dropped a mess with speed, proceed with proper blessed. don’t profess no sickness in this game, i confess, f+ck the fame, my name’s anonymous with aqua breath. heckler & koch caress, i’ll make your characters rock a vest, then clean out your mouth, like aqua fresh. i’ll make tricks holla “chill”, spit that ravage the slit style, for real. (competition?) that’s like a six+dollar bill, it don’t exist in this time, my opposition confined to sh+tty water, like fish in a pond, they vision is blind. mr. glisten with rhine, i been like this in a rhyme, back when isiah got his pistons to shine. (respect, man) i’m worldwide like kris, but never be abroad, your girl rides my d+ck, she better be insured. on a pursuit that’s driven by truth & wisdom. mic murderer? that’s a f+ckin’ euphemism. son, i symbolize the first, official murderer of your purse, bent with the curvature of the earth. heaven+sent to further the love of mirth, you sheeple should repent, i heard ‘ya, for what it’s worth. understand the fact that most these so+called fat+cats that chat that whack rap, is really lab+rats that got caught up, in some freaky type of experiment, corporate hysteria, america’s preferring it. and, when i’m dealin’ with dragons, i get sensitive, ’cause they neglect to visualize what my sincere incentive is. and, they don’t differ much, from these rappers out here, either muddying their own waters, to make ’em appear deeper. don’t you know my clarity is blessed? (oh, yes) yea, this ain’t no popularity contest, but i love y’all to death. at least, the ones that don’t attempt to f+ck my b+tch, the rest of y’all clowns can suck my d+ck…
“is this just a silly game?”
you see, cats like me just ain’t impressed with all that plagaristic small talk, your style’s easy, i’ll murder you with it, for a sport. i’ll bring catastrophe to rappers tryin’ to battle me, you’d rather be stuck+up doo+doo creek, paddle free. the only thing you’ll get from me, is panoramic torture, i’ll strip the static off ‘ya, like some f+ckin’ fabric softener. you whack graffiti, i’m muriatic acid on ‘ya, tryin’ to step to mr. p, and he gon’ have to scorch ‘ya. softer than a baby d+ck, your mom’s almost said “yes” when they asked that b+tch, “are you for a eighty+six?” ’bout to give birth to a career, you better caution still, (why?) ’cause i’ll cut off your deal, like a f+ckin’ abortion pill. (yo) i’d rather listen to clear channel commercials, than hear them whack cats steady babble ’bout they flat circles. mr. p, america’s friend, you better cop that lp when it drop, ock…or, else the terrorists win…
“is this just a silly game?”
it’s beginning to look a lot, like winningest took the spot, before livin’ within your relative means, gimmicks is played, so my image is shade, i discreetly just finish my rage, on automated teller machines. i don’t chime with cats that think it’s fly to sign contracts, then fraudulently shine on wax, before the ink is dry. i admire the ones that flash gats on tracks hectic, but never fired a gun, before they made a rap record. i’m not anti+tool, infact i’m a gun+nut, but redundant talk like that, just f+ck the drums up. and, would you believe i’m also pro+diamond ring? though, it’s no rhyming thing. see the pinky shining? this thing is like the sun, i orbit it constant, you the direct result of increased corporate involvement. when rap was dyin’, i hid the emergency kit, and all the utensils they need to perform a surgery with. but, they saved it, now it’s inundated with vultures, as a result of that we got two separate cultures. one, you can say give back to the slum, while the other one just get rich, and act dumb. for them, i show no compassion, like liberal haters, also the reason they made portable defibrillators. (clear) i’ll make your d+ck cheney’s have a fatal episode, i get a clean shot, george bush head explode. but, i’m just filling in for earth, and she told me personally, that she “don’t want them drilling in her dirt.” when confronted with they fallacies in order, most men switch quicker than f+ggots, with multiple+personality disorders. sh+t is crazy these days, the final hour call for vinyl+power y’all, and the dj to behave as he did in the past. every element, i gotta gotta give ’em, enough with that digital+soul & robotic+rhythm…
‘is this just a silly game?”
+quotes from the 1974 film “young frankenstein”
the other quotes are from the lauryn hill record
“ex factor” (remix)
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