Song Length 4:00 Genre Rap - Alternative, Rap - Progressive
Tempo Medium Slow (91 - 110) Lead Vocal Mixed Vocals
Mood Troubled, Furious Subject Existence, General
Similar Artists Beastie Boys, Cypress Hill Language English
Era 2000 and later



v.1 (M-flow)
Try and lock me out! I'm a latch key kid
Sag my draws, my hat low and swerve in my lid
Creep thru shadow rehearsal to maintain higher ground
Keep you jerks in a circle while my man locks it down

I grew up with nothing in the sticks of Shawnee.
Believe me, you'll get whooped there real damn easy
So leave me quite the fuck-hell alone...lemme
Go on my own to find my own zone.

You gotta be on your own man to figure it out.
Find words that portray your life's mind thru your mouth.
You think it's funny honey now to mess with my mind
You money hungry bitch, you aint hard to find.

You never get it. Pathetic Ikea Boy
With your eye on the prize collecting multiple faggot toys
The more you enjoy the more you destroy
Material wisdom is dull and void.

Did you get the fall design for the contemporary shit?
Bought and wrapped it ripped the tag and split,
You're a thief to yourself, you just aint been caught
You're invisible without the shit that you bought.

You're and empty human clone with no vibe to give
It's funny, how you by some shitÖand it's all you're left with
The way that you come in is the way that you go out.
Naked, Nothing, Nowhere, No One Else...NO Doubt.

v.2 (Plovo)
High-tech machinery molds the flow
Into the tempo as I follow Captain M-flow
We've been conceiving instrumentals
To spread those ears
For the past ten years, I've watched this art form veer out of the clear
Because once upon a time, there was a whack fucking movement
Cash money was viewed as the most viable improvement
I know you knew this
And you had to proceed with greed
Now all your biting emcees will be deleted immediately for teething me
And bleeding these rhymes on your table
Soaking every so-called artist that resides on your label
With a stable flow of beats when the trap set speaks
Pump my shit out of the window so the word's on the street
That it's a stick up, I'll make it obvious
I'll take your lungs, your tongues, and your esophagus
We enforce laws against the sloppiest
Musical flaws, no snow jobs
No remakes of proven hits, dog
No weak shit that you call a remix
You didn't invent it
You spent cash and circumvented
The process, what it takes to properly drop shit
I'm firm on the notion that you're the hip hop Michael Bolton
I'm coating the bitter pill with my thicker, quicker skills
You and your pawns need to run along and try to write a fucking song
And make it tight, cause it just might be your last one
That extra light shit you spit is just dead wrong

v.3 (N. Norris)
Twice the man of most contestants
Peasant from the borough bottom, rugged street apparel
Rotten ragged terrorist, so fuck the U.N.
Burn the bush, utilize the flames to blaze the kush up
Standing on your spine, spitting raps demanding push ups
Let me speak about the industry cats, finicky whack
Penny annie mini me raps, strapped with tampax
Plugging up the source of your flow
Treat a lady like a bitch? Treat a bitch like an emcee
This is how we do it now, fucking keeping it moving now
Proving how, no Jah, your game has fallen so far
No wonder with no specific genre
I'm going to bomb ya,
Kill the dons in the presence of your mama
Calm, witty like Pharaoh, direct an arrow through your belly
So lace your air forces up, I'm coming for you Nelly
Calling punks out by their stage name
Source mag talking about the day the Norris rage came
To maintain built a name prior to the fame
Blame it on the rain, kicking ass while you entertain
You motherfuckers role with Twan and Blaine
While the fourteenth letter and The Thousands reign

Lyrics Peter Lovo, Mike Flowers, Naaman Norris Music Mike Flowers
Producer Mike Flowers Publisher dh6 productions
Performance The Thousands Label Dh6 Productions
Clean Clean

Clean Clean

Artist Name
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