|
Since you're my special friend come closer for a special treat
|
(Uh)
|
I'm going to let you touch me in a special place
|
(But I don't want to touch you there)
|
It is never ok to touch someone else's private parts
|
Your mom and dad will tell you so
|
Verse One: Bigg Jus
|
Your eyes get live like Tupac getting shot in a lobby
|
Most MC's styles is robbery of my freestyles as a hobby
|
I pick apart monkey brains and spread disease through hot zones
|
My cameos on promos seem strange like someone's not home
|
Bigg Jus the outsider rain on your dream field
|
With styles so freaking wet niggas need maxi panty shields
|
Expose more moes out the closet that lead paint on your tenement
|
Got more Black Thoughts in my Roots than most niggas got in their
|
pigment
|
It's the baby-faced lieutenant with the luck like Luciano
|
Hardcore like Kool G Rap music made for concert piano
|
So dust off the candelabra, hip hop's version of the super Don Dada
|
With the license to give more ass whippings than Father
|
You couldn't see me with binoculars, cover myself like telepathy
|
Make most crews disappear like blackheads on Oxy creme
|
Under the lights I fuck up mics with my uncanny ability to heat seek
|
Through brain facilities with the science of microchemistry
|
This history of my hip hop is too deep to be dissected
|
Bitch recollect don't even half step or try to test it black
|
Bigg Jus, I drop so much shit my anus needs an ice pack
|
In fact I'm all that, El-P yo bring the horns back
|
(Yes)
|
Right through the center of your focus picture a long silver needle
|
(You are correct sir)
|
Piercing the outer lens of your eyesight
|
[El-P]
|
And once again
|
In one verse we have proven
|
That we can rip all these signed big budget motherfuckers
|
(89.9)
|
Peace to Stretch and Bobbito
|
(Bob-bi-to!)
|
Verse Two: El-P
|
Ye olde lyrics of fire
|
Surface bonds from X-Wing fighter stance to B-boy
|
Actions fratcture negative thirty below wind chill factor
|
The counteraction is just a helpless action of the hapless flinching
|
My supersonics leave you mute like Maggie Simpson
|
Taxidermist El-P I defy translation
|
Instigate and set in crates(?) throughout your whole situation
|
Practice exposing perfection like Ricki Like exposes white trash
|
My shit is strange X-file number 2-6-7 whiplash
|
Triple felon emcee minus the melanin
|
When I bomb it the type of shit to make Baby Jessica jump in the well
|
again
|
Sunshines or rain acid, El-P the battle master
|
Lactose breaking down your fucking fractals till you're flaccid
|
I'm leaving Las Vegas like a hundred flying Elvises
|
Raid, spot my prey, swoop down and cross their pelvises
|
Rat nerve like David grill smoke bitch
|
Catch my frozen frame suspended
|
You couldn't even fuck with my idle fidget
|
My birthright I'm pulling swords from stones high tone beam
|
Phonetically abort it try to distort it and catch a silent scream,
|
fetus
|
The raw daddy tactics prove Krush Groove unstoppable
|
Testing luck it's like sucking on lead pink popsicles
|
The enigma, no one can fuck with me yet but I'm not signed
|
(You wanna battle?)
|
It's better to look in the
|
(mirror)
|
Say Candyman five times
|
Candyman (whispered 5x)
|
Just a promo
|
Understand
|
(Candyman)
|
To be the man you gots to beat the man
|
(It's so clear now)
|
Me and Bigg Jus
|
(The beautiful light)
|
Company Flow clan
|
(I can touch it)
|
Mr. Len, 'sup?
|
89.9
|
Hit me with that shit some time
|
Bigg Jus, Lune TNS
|
The almighty El-P
|
The imperial DJ Mr. Len
|
Company Flow swinging it to you live for '95
|
|
|
-----------------
|
Bad Touch Example
|
| Company Flow |
