Intro (Steve-O):
Psycho Realm, Sick Symphonies
What up?

Chorus (Cynic):
Man, these fools ain’t gorillas
They just monkeys that talk
A bunch of liars with no heart
Yo, we line ‘em up like cannons
But don’t none of ‘em spark
I can tell they all faggots by the way that they walk
You're like a piece of canvas that ain’t got no art
It's plain to see the fantasies I’m ripping apart
They ain’t flipping keys, they ain’t killing nobody
They ain’t really catching cases
Ain’t none of ‘em popping off

Verse 1 (Cynic):
I got a fist full of iron
I pop a bitch in the eye
Admire my sick mind
Inside design your demisе
These little guys, no mattеr the size
Try to rise to my occasion
Receive 5 shots in their ribcages
I spit native so my tongue it flips like it's Asian
It's a script, actors, hardbody government agents
These record labels set up for federal agencies
They sign you for the information
You gone, they tell the D’s
They have these puppets acting
Like they really are moving D
Maneuver heat in the rap hood
They act like they run the streets
They have more security that Snoop D-Double O-G
In a bulletproof cruiser smoking up all his weed
I'm rolling with young G's, pushing a hundred keys
I'm lying but spit fire then I'll go make a beat
A team but just one could defeat your whole fleet
Famous for exposing the weaks
That charge for hire wage
Chorus

Verse 2 (Sick Jacken):
We are in a terror state
Earthquake but the tremor is great
The future’s grim so I bury my safe
I got this art form called rap
They say that I'm great
But the ones cashing out
Are the feminine and fake
Oh, wait, I don’t wanna sound
Like I hate on the heavyweights
But it’s a burn like drinking
Vodka and Henny straight
The dopest rappers ain’t cake
Some got raped
They so broke they don't know
The sound that a penny makes
I'm getting mine, homie
Hustle all the time, homie
I'm on the grind
Only call me if you got money for me
Been independent since I dropped War Story
And still put bigger crowds in L.A. than the top Audi
Cops and feds, they monitor my bread
But mom and pop’s shops
Got more honor than the dead
I got no paper work
Got numbers in my head
You can keep the plaques and the tax
I'm underground instead, yeah!
Verse 3 (ILL BILL):
This is ILL BILL, homie
Let me tell you something:
Where I’m from the value of life
Is next to nothing
Brooklyn motherfucker plus
The west coast is open on me
I’m world-wide with the LC familia army
It bothers y’all that I rep my family
Terror in every barrio, every hood
Every borough, every block that’s hot
Street corners resemble the night of the living dead
Junkie track mark, hooker is giving head
To the young and restless youth
We blast ‘till there is no one left to shoot
Morally bankrupt and destitute
I ain’t a prisoner
Shank the windpipe of the warden
Your days are limited
I stab the spin, psych in your jordan’s
Fling you up
Top of the tier but planted in crisis
Bring you more rock
Than you clearly had in your life
It’s crack music
My mix-down is heroin symphonic
You are an addict, I’m a savage
So intelligent and brolic
It's outrageous to the world at large
How I have 4 Aces at the table
When I turn back cards
Leave the faces in amazement
‘cause I work that smart
Never been a lucky person
Yo, I earned the spot
My position is that of a ruler of
A kingdom to raise the underground
A hundred thousand feet above the fools
You think it’s not over for music
With that soul and substance
Laughing while they took all your money
And showed you nothing
Chorus