| After plasma transfusion I became Rasputin |
| The master of translucence who lives in a green house |
| Creatin’green gas pollution, smokin’hash from hookahs |
| Before Lucifer sent me back to the future to smash computers |
| Assassinate classes of students, I spare those who show classic improvement |
| Produce magik acoustics, supreme music using dreams so lucid |
| I can visualize my future and chose it, I never abuse it |
| I’m ruthless but Canibus is super illumine |
| You know what? I read the blueprint |
| Sometimes it seems like my eyes are wide shut like Stanley Kubrick |
| Mic Club the Curriculum II, |
| I changed the name 'cause I ain’t in business no more with you-know-who |
| He stole from Killah Priest too, his name rhymes with Clue |
| I found out the same time as you, |
| You know what happens when you come from dishonest roots |
| You put roots on me, I put roots on you |
| «We live in a free country» |
| That phrase is so fuckin’funny, we know freedom is based off the money |
| Resources to hide behind lawyers, it must be lovely |
| When nobody can touch your lunch meat |
| We brainwashed, we can’t get these white collar stains off |
| Poor Bernard Madoff belongs in the graveyard |
| The stock market trade off doesn’t pay off |
| We get laid off, the country spirals into chaos |
| I’m no genius, I know enough not to trust FEMA |
| Their vaccines give ya eczema of the penis |
| The Tuskegee Jesus verses a sneaky Tuskegee Demon |
| What you gon’do when you see this?! |
| The oldest religions, the coldest magicians |
| Transmittin’live from Hell with heat stroke symptoms |
| Symbicort is a success for those short of breath |
| Got to wait for the next check 'cause I can’t afford it yet |
| DZK come slaughter the set, tell Warbux he got next |
| Post Traumatic War Lab Stress |
| I always open wide like a great white, mouth full of steak knives |
| Chewin’through the sewer’s main line 'til it drain dry |
| And when you’re waist high in waste |
| I make planned attacks on every last base camp in your wasteland |
| I scheme for weeks and draft designs on how to craft my rhymes like a mastermind |
| Whether young or past your prime I’ll eat you alive |
| Ain’t no motherfucking reason to try, just die |
| Hope you’re ready to run |
| I’ll cut the tongue out of my son just to stay number one |
| No one will ever sit on my throne except my clone replica |
| Who will never be better than what they stole the genetics from |
| Gangbang, the beats we slang language |
| Which alleviates your teenage angst and break cages |
| Now we’re runnin’through the streets with our leash off |
| Eatin’all your stray pets shittin’on your police cars |
| Cuz’I’m a beast dog, you don’t want no beef punk |
| Hit you with a meat log bigger than a tree trunk |
| I kick the shit that make you pee all in your jeans chump |
| Clean up after my show better bring a steam pump |
| I fuckin’breathe funk ain’t no fuckin’Tic Tac existing |
| That’s big enough to clean up this act you’re trippin' |
| You cannot begin to comprehend, if you cross me |
| The position you’ll all be in |
| This isn’t battle rap, maggot, this is me with a battle axe |
| Swingin through your Cadillac imagine that |
| You fuckin’headless metal wreckage in the shattered glass |
| I give a fuck about your backpack and faggot ass |
| Dim those lights I’m kimbo Slice on a mic |
| But I don’t lose none of my big pro fights |
| I just bruise dudes twice my size and crews move |
| When I maneuver through 'em smooth they know who’s who |
| I clear the room with a sonic boom and nuclear plume |
| You should assume I ain’t got a lotta provin’to do |
| I’m bring doom to musicians with a feminine groom |
| Kanye West, best believe I’m looking at you |
| Call it ill by design, that’s how to define us |
| Cuz in the Warlab with me we got it down to a science |
| This is underground at its finest |
| The most talented rhymers around |
| Shittin on all of you clowns and cowards who sign us |
| So go ahead you’ll have hell of a time |
| Tryin’ta find a rapper with lines as compelling as mine |
| You talking about a fellow with the will to confine himself |
| To a cellar developing his rhymes for years to stay on his grind |
| This is Melatonin Magik |
| You wet behind the ears like playing telephone with faggots |
| So let em know, they spend an o and cellulose and acid |
| These heads will roll, we send 'em home in yellow woven baskets |
| The ninja rap stars just as explodes to the scene |
| My blades will cut up your back like a rowing machine |
| It could get ugly if they don’t intervene |
| Cuz I could make your life flash before your eyes like I’m throwing it beads |
| I’m incoherent or so it would seem |
| No I’m esoteric and don’t care if you know what I mean, that’s the spirit |
| Cuz its apparent if you took half of what passes for lyrics and compared them |
| to mine |
| Hip hop should be fuckin’embarrassed |
| So did you really want to flow with the gods? |
| I’m too educated, haters couldn’t cope with the odds |
| See I studied Biggie and Pac, Hova and Nas |
| Paganini and Bach, Beethoven and Brahms |
| You are now in the presence of a master musician |
| I craft my rap with the precision of a mathematician |
| Or a surgeon, performin’a thoracic incision |
| A magician escaping out of his shackles in prison |
| Before you could even finish saying oh my god |
| I’ll spit a motherfuckin’verse to fill your whole ipod |
| I’m the rip the jacker prodigy |
| Motivated by the golden age of rap back in the older days |
| The incredible little fellow with rhythm and timing on instrumentals |
| The shit I’ve said in the rhyme could be considered a federal crime |
| Like blowin off your head with a 9 |
| Anyone with a shred of intelligence could tell its just ahead of its time |
| I’m too sick, ain’t even talking about the music |
| Keep my fuckin’name out of your mouth, need a toothpick? |
| You a little confused like who’s this dude |
| «This is a W-A-R-B-U-X exclusive» |
| The underdog, like back in the bible with Noah’s arc |
| To entrusted military titles to Joan of Ark |
| To Napolean Bonaparte down to Rosa Parks |
| And the medics attempting rescue, breathin’on Owen Hart |
| This fucker 'Bux is the shit |
| So who really gives a fuck if he’s busting a clip |
| In public drunk in the trunk of your whip |
| The diabolical, alcoholical, comically pharmaceutically phenominal |
| Product of poppin’pills |
| And you are not as ill, check your doctors bill |
| I’m more dangerous in the streets than a toxic spill |
| Yo this is 50 bars of sickness |
| Consider it a Christmas gift to you 'Bis don’t forget this |