Folks think I'm a nice guy, to a fault I guess I am, if those folks only knew deep down I just don't give a d@mn,
I'm tryin to keep my language clean like crispy Franklin notes, I am that cunning linguist spittin nifty antidotes,
that cross you up the Hardaway and leave ya ankles broke, hot feces exits out my mouth, I got a stanky throat,
that exhales dragon fire but believe this aint a roast, there's too much jumpin off and I'm afraid it aint a joke.
Like women nowadays, I often wonder if it's me, that sees how some are free to divvy up the wizard sleeve,
then they don't know just how they came to get the hivv disease, deny and keep it sweet to give it up to Nick and Steve.
I get up on my soapbox when I have to dropp a jewel, the niceness gets mistaken like I still won't dropp a fool,
for comin outta pocket, I aint talkin poppin tools, I let go of the knowledge cause this dude can dropp it smooth.
I'm Harry Belafonte but don't call me Mr. Tibbs, this poetry just flows in me and what a gift it is,
you may not think my skill's correct but I insist it is, I'm so unlike the others, verbis not ipissimis.
Confused on what that means? Well I advise you look it up, vernacular's like stir-fry in a wok; I cook it up,
and dish out healthy servings, I won't let your brain cells starve, in executing verbal warfare, yes I am well armed.
My aim will blow ya head off like Bin Laden, picture that, the YouTube vids and image will confirm this vicious fact,
don't need Marines and choppers flying into distant lands, I'll do you like Waist Deep but they won't find the missing hand.
My adjectives are ravenous but that's just certain ones, my scarface resonates of how I kill these words for fun,
to crush the competition and I do it big like Pun, then ride off in a Matrix, cunning linguist, I'm The One.