Who is the greatest of all times What is this 1989 You worried about this nonsense While I have people around me dying You talk about the king of New York Like he is the second coming of Jesus Knowing that in the end You will be king of nothing But a mountain of feces I need relief
Hip Hop smells bad these days I wish someone would strike a match Set the whole thing in flames It's already on an oil slick And on it's way Even the conscious crowd Aren't to conscious About what they say They still cuss They still fuss They still write songs about big butts They still smoke weed They still hang with a bunch Of unsavory characters Hardcore gangster Americans Who are always mean mugging And always want to stare at ya Like what you looking at Knowing they were looking at you first And if they are so hard Why are their feelings hurt so easily Some times I wish I could go hangout by myself But Jesus keeps on telling me His people need some help