Stanley's Friends - Lee Scott, WH@IB££, Hibernation

Hahahahahaha

Who I Be

Prod Morriarchi

First of all

Let’s talk about you ill fakers

How most of you afford to drink your counterfeit and papers

Left up to me

Well, I’d deny the whole lot of you

Horrible

Hope the whole roof falls on top of you

I keep it real like money, g and only fade a few

Like jim jones syndrome

Cult gang posse crew

Brainwave, I pave that

Buggin' in The basement

Fingers on the button

And ---- blood on the apron

Stinkin' up that mary jane

the danker grade

Iron lung trainin'

Smokin' til I’m old and grey

Now I gotsta talk a phrase

Now here’s a doper phrase

A fuckin' toke a day will help you keep your doc away

I like my waters muddy

And my pockets phat

You dropped your I want her back

You don’t deserve to poke it

So hand it over, brag

I bring the storm

Get you open with the sanga knife

Yellow tape, half lines

Box cutter, deep hits

Chalk on the pavement

The body’s on my Craigs

Love the sound of sirens

Got it on the replay

High in the mornin', cold saggin in the eveniiiin'!

Sweg, blood and coffee on me sheep skin coat

Reaching deep into me pocket for a smoke

Probably the goat but I’d never gloat

I walk up to the edge and float

To the other side, in a single humble stride

Running high, before I trip and crush your pride

Then leave for lunch and cut the pie five ways

So its easier for me to munch (mmmm)

Outside the chippy, tipsy sipping a whisky

Clicking me fingers at a kid for a ciggy

Sitting pretty in the ugly tree

Don’t even look at me me when you look at me, just agree

Eyes on the floor while I dribble on

In your face with more faces than a quintesson

Asking you rhetorical questions like «Wheres your liquor gone?»

And what bottle I’m drinking from

Starving me Digimon, I’m something like a Sicilian don

At the gates of heaven giving God shit on the Intercom

Chances stuck between slim and none

I meditate like «Get money, Fuck bitches Om»

I used to wanna be a star, I’d love the money love the fame

Yeah, that’d be out this world but now all I want is space

Get the fuck up out my face

I don’t got no true hope

Spray painting overrated on Tupacs tombstone

I carry the pistol mate, it’s the american way

It’ll make your character change like it did with Harriet Winslow

Speaking of Family Matters, no it don’t so sit calm

Remove your clothes, do it slow and take this fucking dick Mom

Seal my blunts with holy water

Kill a priest and feel a rush

I’m bumping Killah Priest

Take whatever a pills I want

Fuck these kiddie rappers thinking that they something sick

I’m only over your head, cus I’m tired of you sucking dick

Fucking pricks, «» New breed

I’m from the Wu era too Pharoah for you geeks

Now it’s like a job to me, I’m out here making mad bank

So read it and weep like the diary of Anne Frank

DAMN STRAIGHT