Let me freak the funk Obsolete is the punk that talk more junk than Sanford sells I jet propel at a rate that complicate their mental state As I invade their masquerade They couldn't fade with a clipper blade 10 years in the trade is not enough, you can't cut it I let you take a swing, and you bunted For an easy out, I leave emcees with doubt Of exceeding, my name is Bootie Brown and I'm proceeding, leading They try to follow but they're shallow and hollow I can see right through them like an empty 40 bottle, of O.E They have no key, or no clue To the game at all, now they washed up Hung out to dry Standing looking stupid, wondering why (why man?) It was the fame, that they tried to get Now they walking around talkin about represent And keep it real, but I got to appeal Cause they existing in a fantasy when holding the steel

Rock a bye baby Listen to your heartbeat pumping to a fine ravine Of all things it's a vain of a shrine All missions impossible are possible, cause I'm Heading for a new sector 365 days from now, I'll Wipe the sweat from my eye And each and every true will stick, or fall from the sky of my cloud nine From homies all the way to chicks, no matter how fine Controlling is a swollen way to wreck a proud mind You hold it in your hands and watch a man start crying Tear after tear in the puppet man's hands Every time you take a stance you do the puppet man's dance And the worlds at a stand-still Deep in broken mansville, trapped in the moat with an anvil, still Killing yourself, and dogging ya health You ain't amphibious, so grab a hold of yourself

Shit is-shit is ill, my flow still will spill Toxic slick to shock you sick like electrocute When I execute, acutely over the rhythm On those that pollute, extra dosages is what I gotta give em Got em mad and tremblin Cause I been up in my lab assemblin Missiles, to bomb the enemy Because they envy me, and the making of my mad currency Currently I think we're in a state of an emergency Cause niggas done sold their souls, and now their souls is hollow And I think they can't follow They can't swallow, the truth because it hurts This is how I put it down, this is my earth, my turf The worth of my birth is a billion, and you know what time it is I'm going to make a million (You know what time is it? Never)

Quote by The Pharcyde from Drop on the album Labcabincalifornia