Sick Man

Now I might just be a sick man
But Everything I do is sick, man
It's Lit fam, god damn put the Mic in my hand
And listen to my Nine mm go Blam!

Fresh dressed like a thousand stacks
Armed to the teeth, don't know how to act
Boom & pound & move a crowd don't have to tell me twice
I body rock like MC Lyte vs. Wesley Snipes
Rap promoter every night you gotta get me right
Cash me the fuck out like an empty pipe
Lemme tell you bout my money, don't play like broken toys
Old School poster boy, face up in the polaroid
Sippin Henny over hail stones in the photograph
With the homie in the jail pose with the soldier rag
Jagged as a brick, pants sagging at the hip
Bass heads nose bleed when they bang it in the whip
Lock it up like Co-D's at the ankle and the wrist
Finesse mics with two fingers, why you strangling the bitch?
Sucka please, it's in my blood and what I breathe
You prolly even find me sleepin in a funky freeze

Now I might just be a sick man
But Everything I do is sick, man
It's Lit fam, god damn put the Mic in my hand
And listen to my Nine mm go Blam!

The Slang Monster, bank robber pushin notes
Freestylin & forgettin shit you wish you coulda wrote
The kid do square biz w/ a lot of crooked folks
My cologne's a cloud of smoke like my pockets fulla dope
Walk the streets like Michael Jackson with the zippers in my jacket
Style so clean like I'm tryin to kick the habit
Beat fiend spit for addicts, let Marley hit the scratches
Until the bridge is over... like Mr. Magic
Dope sick & symptomatic down to my suede Pumas
Beatin drums, speak in tongues, might just be a brain tumor
Terminally ill, walkin emergency for real
You couldn't fix this sickness with a surgery and pills
My brain is tryin to murder me and certainly it will
Somebody tell the Jerk to quit the third degree and chill
Spit it like the ghost of Big L haunts my inkwell
Pour out some kettle one for the Devil's Son & we drink well

Now I might just be a sick man
But Everything I do is sick, man
It's Lit fam, god damn put the Mic in my hand
And listen to my Nine mm go Blam!

The cavalier racketeer cruising through the stratosphere
So high you couldn't hear me without antennae & rabbit ears
Homie's so fly I'm duck hunting with a rake
Crushin like the FatBoys while ya drums are underweight
We just punch ya face w/ the bass like Mista Chuck
Over did it just a touch & no we didn't give a fuck
Cause me and Note Lab don't know the limits of the funk
We keep it knockin like we had Jehova's Witness in the trunk
Trust & believe we tight as buckles & jeans
Doing this since Dre & O'shea said Fuck The police
The Coltrain of cold game, minus 100 degrees
Yeah we two stacks, just a couple of G's
W/ the kinda minds to turn coal shafts to diamond minds
Flossing on these weak ass fools like it's nine to five
My blunt smoke is gun smoke, spit dynamite
King of Style, keep it lit like the pilot light