LYRIC FOR SALE

By Nomadic Extra Large

fxxx the fxxxery, enough with it.
Ain’t got enough sperm in my balls to fxxx with it.
So check how I spit it — saliva dripping from my penmanship.
The crowd hungry, like an untamed lion.
And real hip hop is the prey for the ones
Who go out to search and look,
Until they find something juicy enough that they can cook.
Take my time when I’m cooking up something raw.
Spice up the beat like some hot Cajun coleslaw.
Throw in some rhymes and hooks, then stir it in a pot.
And now you got a perfect meal — I call it food for the soul.
Food for the heart — the type of food that’ll rip your sound system apart.
Your speakers screaming for help,
Because they can’t take the pain.
From the boom bap to the rat-tat-tat-tat.
You think I’m talking ’bout a gun? No.
I’m talking ’bout when your speakers crack.
My fans been fiending for a while, so now I feed them crack.
You think I’m talking ’bout drugs? No — I’m talking ’bout that
Raw hip hop that’ll give your mind an overdose.
Stuck a needle in a beat, killed it, and made a toast
To the good life, like it ain’t nothing to do.
Killing these notepads like I ain’t got nothing to lose.
What you think I got time to be hanging with you?
Who’s “you,” you ask?
I’m talking about the stress we go through on a daily basis.
Making music — that’s the way I escape this.
Escape artist, taking a nice swim in Ocean’s Eleven.
Styles is like Christ mingling with a corrupted reverend.
They say materialism — I say corrupted heaven.
Joys of this lavish life got us all hooked.
I reel you in like a fish when I blow air through the mic.
Look now, ’cause later might not be an option.
Better choose the life you want now, before your dreams turn rotten.