man, i listen to rap cuz they sing about the good shit. the money the cars the clothes the girls
i walk wit a waddle
my jeans hang low cuz ma pockets fulla gwappa
my chain hang low cuz my ice fulla wata
i walk wit a waddle
i walk wit a waddle
a whole lotta swagga im a yung don dotta
i walk wit a waddle
so if you dont like the rappers who sing about the good shit, then your emo, go listen to Billy Talent, sit down in the dark in your closet and slit your wrists for me
wow atleast give me good arguments
its gwop not gwappa
The press runs to tape-record the bloody mess
Documentation so the human race can study death
They'll reach you through your TV speaker
They'll feature a creature that will beat you to death if he could meet you
You're executed when you’re electrocuted
Who's responsible for a homeless man that's dead and smells putrid
We murdered your natural flesh after being thrown in a river
You will be frozen forever into a statue of death
A grasshopper in the lab dead
Stabbed in the head
Knives are like the hands of a crab
Jabbing your flab till you wrapped them and bled
Throw you off a building
Killing off your children
Drilling' holes in your corpse till you're spilling the color vermilion
We'll split your brains
I'll slit your vein
The impact of a bat cracked across your back is like getting hit by a train
I'll stick a fang in your blood bank
Then strangle my shangle bangle you like the triangle piece of bangle
I think my shit's too brutal for most
I might be the only one capable of digesting the dose
You won't survive a screwdriver driven inside your throat
Choke on blood and saliva another conniver croaks
CHORUS:
It's poetry in the streets of the big apple
And a vitality found in few other places
But look beneath the surface of the city
And you shall uncover a seething cesspool of human emotions
Gone sour
A planet with nightmares that become reality
Witness the brutality
There's poetry in the streets of the big apple
You get tackled
And grappled to the floor, white slaved up and shackled