Instrumental: "Golden Age" by Planet Asia.
Produced by: Kutmasta Kurt.
Oh, now they say A's getting worse.
Maybe so, or maybe radio could play an inspirational verse.
Instead of garbage and bullshit by bullshit artists,
Competing who can bullshit hardest and seeing who push the bullshit farthest.
I am the truth,
And Bill & Ted didn't spend this much time in the booth.
My adventure ain't excellent that why I get juice and let loose,
Til I inspire the troops to start firing.
That's what you call rhyming? Try and produce.
Shoot, that's what you call grinding? You better off trying to guard a 9 foot giant at hoops,
Or tying a noose and crying goodbye, you dying,
I'm dying to find an excuse to get violent, it's time for abuse.
Who the fuck's signing these groups?! Unsign 'em.
I'm done whining, want it with Legend? Come find him,
I'm anywhere the fuckin' sunshining, drunk driving.
At lunchtime and I'm a be up on your block,
If I miss you, I'll hit you at double the speed at one o'clock.
And initial the spot to make it official that Bomb did it,
My drinking problem is yours if you can't get along with it.
The non-blitted complain cuz I'm boozing again,
You don't know my name? That makes two of us then.
All I know is dudes in the Pen', ex-cons, boosters and men
Who'll open your mind like a hallucinogen.
By Two-Zero-Ten, if haters don't love me, I'll quit,
I ran the show like Dougie & Rick and still ignorant and ugly as shit.
Stubbornly prick, to me it's black and white,
Like a half-blind Colombian chick. I'm W-ick-E-D.
Some of you spit,
And overlook who wrote the book you've been studying with.
Heard the word how a nerd said I suddenly slipped,
While he's currently on somebody's dick, plus his own.
I should break his leg, bloody his lip, bust his dome,
Send him on a trip to meet Owen Hart and Russell Jones.
Crush his bones, have his organs and guts and muscles thrown,
On his doorstep burning, where the fuck's his home?
I'll MapQuest his address and fill up his porch,
If he lives in an apartment, his building get torched.
I'll look everywhere from shelters to Hilton resorts,
Find him swimming, I'mma kill him while he's still in his shorts.
Remorse isn't an emotion I'm able to claim,
Trade bitches and devotion for paper and pain.
You lames pay whores nightly, I'm way more likely,
To dump a stripper in the ocean than making it rain.
Listen, I'm from the era of grimy rap,
I don't want to hear a synthesized whiny track.
Fuck a 'Buy Me!' act, where the rhymes be at?
For god sakes, bring Beat Junkie and Riley's back.
Cuz I need that like the Leafs needed Meeker,
Like Cheech needed reefer, like Screech needed Lisa.
I mean I need it bad like the streets need a leader,
That's why I need beats like a gina. So I can free ya.
From the new-age slave masters,
the corporations and the lame rappers they train to aim at us.
So they can maintain the same status,
And turn our grey matters from plain brainwaves to strained cabbage.
You cat's is getting headstomps when I find ya,
Bigger rats than restaurants on Spadina.
And I'm about to fuck the hell out your step-momma's vagina,
This your S-A-R-S constant reminder by the Legend.
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