This is madness!

This is an outrage (echo)

As a matter of fact, this is outrageous Yeah, young sire, slap the *** out Jon Cryer

Rough rider, raw bust inside a vagina

Like I want kids, my head continues to be haunted

I burn a city down while I'm unconscious, baby go on

Take some quaaludes, conversate with Jesus

Batting practice with the mother***ing ghost of Babe Ruth

Do as a saint do, turn painful to graceful

Devil on my trails, I'm trying to find the Holy Grail

Right there

And if Mars is the farthest that man has set his target

Then I don't know why I even started

I'm sick of being too nice to people who don't do *** but consume light

Told myself, "*** the world kid, just do what you like"

Go and have a food fight, start yourself a new life

You're too bright to be inside a bunch of mediocrity

But all those big words ain't gonna get you paid

And those abstract ideas for sure won't get you laid

You got it made in that mad house

What the *** you got to be sad about?

Go ahead a rap now, do what you do best, I mean

That's what you do best, matter fact mother***er

You suit vest, you need to buy a new dress

I heard you and your girl live in a duplex

I'm a put her ass in a Suplex, the sun east, the moon west

You got a clue, what does a clue get?

Nothing My milk & honey, my Cherie-Cherie Amour

My Cinderella in her carriage by the doorway

Her ruby slipper made the wizard send the scarecrow

And the lion through the forest

To the wicked witch's fortress where she scorched them in the foreplay

Remember that? He said he'd fight the box to see the wizard

When he was visited by Dorothy who came here on a blizzard

Now the whole world's in color, still,

How Auntie Em was next of kin and not her mother

Real, her face was care-worn

I suspected she migrated to Kansas up from Dearborn

And had beef with Mrs. Gulch from the very beginning of Year One

Mr. Candyman, the parables parabolic

The poetry's like the poems and songs of Ecclesiastes

Lightning should strike the stone and then Moses should make a tablet

The Judge will bang the wood up in parliament with the mallet

And yell "Hear, Hear," finally some order to this rap ***

Finally some sort of water to soil these cracked lips

I keep my *** crispy and elegant,

So miss me with the irrelevant, the god body is heaven-sent

The hard-body is reverence, since the son of Byford

Brother of Fal, every rhyme's halal

Every line is kosher, livin' la vida loca

Shout out to Tony Toca, we ballin' like we suppose to