[Intro] [Verse 1] Yield, to the forces of darkness I bring you the torches of our shit Reinforced with hardness of Wolverine's Arms with the harshness and overall sharpness Now how far do the arms get? My nigga, from the stars to the starfish From the baby to the Bar Mitz It's a whole lot of light and a whole lot of arm length My arms long, but I'm lawless A strong arm, I can lift up all this You gon' have to build a bigger farm fence To keep them wolves out of Old MacDonald barn, bitch Yeah, Team Jacob We're long armed, put my hands on a lear Everytime I put my hands in the air Watch the throne as I dance in the chair Throw my crown in the crowd, hope it lands on the heir The weak niggas like to pass interfere Spit a lot of meh over jams of the year That act like the man up in here That don't count when your only real fan is a mirror That's subliminal to any nigga that he feel he is too But you don't stand a chance, playa I am there, Chi-Town, fan of the Bears Love where they dance in the square Yeah, Yankees too, but only cause Granderson there And now wears khaki pants on La Brea We all friends, why your man lookin' scared? Turning whiter than Anderson hair Came out the garage like he saw a phantom in there, huh [Verse 2] Old shit alert, Louis clothes Callin women bitches, Louboutins and Gucci shows Well, I guess there goes my Louis shows More old shit, if your role model's a movie role And if you live your life like it's a studio Talkin' to us like we mics, a bunch of you ain't do befo' Electric fences for a urinal Also keep a toaster in my jacuzzi, yo Shock-a-zulu, call me Wasalu II Oh shit, man these record labels prostitute you Strap them to sushi bars, and feed em lots of fugu Catch a bad piece You can stick that 360 between your asscheeks Artists let's mobilize and unionize like the athletes Radio is making our craft weak Forced to repeat the same dumb shit that work Only as hot as your last beat And rappers, they relating to that last piece Album never leave they desk if you don't got no B.D.S Sacrifice your publishin', they said you really need a hook And they ain't gon' pay you, said that you received a look And what's stupid real, is what producers feel Twenty placements or you stuck in that producer deal And R&B chicks so get it the wildest All they money goes to hairdressers and stylists Gotta keep up with that image Label lose they mind if they ever see a blemish ProActiv and peels, airbrushers and trainers Managers suggest you fuck a nigga to be famous, huh But it's all entertainment Wonder when Cobain blew out his brains, did he blame it? And if those snakes in the industry helped him aim it Started pressing up records before the bullet left the chamber I fight evil, everyday I'm livin' Rest in peace to men, women and the children And middle fingers to the Pilgrims that killed 'em Friend of the People, happy Thanksgiving
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