[Verse 1: Open Mike Eagle]
This guy Large Professor said, “Don’t say the year”
But it’s 2012 now, and don’t nobody care
I don’t even care like I used to. You gotta look
Apathetic like Zoey D and Eliza Dushku
How they look for real? I’m not even knowing
In my head, they both look like girls named Chloe
They probably go to parties where the coca stay flowing
In Southern California, that’s the only time it’s snowy
They say rappers are reporters for the hood
Well, I just did the weather. I’m ‘bout to send it back over
To MarQ. I heard there was a shooting in the park
And a bunch of teen mothers prostituting in the dark
They do it in the name of Slauson and Figueroa
In a 6-inch skirt and a pink feather boa
I can’t believe they really made a drug called Soma
I’m forty G’s in debt from a bachelor’s diploma
I’m drunk on the air like Kathie Lee & Hoda
Take a couple shots a day just to fill my quota
Santino Marella, striking you with a cobra
Except it’s much, much softer when I’m sober

[Verse 2: MarQ Spekt]
Grew up with a silver spoon, heroin got burned on it
4:36AM, no-knock search warrant
Trigger pulled, cocked, no words—they take yours for it
Chaos ignore us, all the fiends with that raw water
That leave their mouth dry, mile high, skied on the
Surfboard, left ‘em dead on the church doorstep
He crashing out, magna cum laude
School of Hard Knocks with the black cap and gown
One man face your army, back ‘em down, mixed the
Skunk with dust, and they called it Black & Mild
Feet shackled, still couldn’t track him a half a mile
Beelzebub made me do it if I’m blacking out
Spaz on ‘em, them downers can’t crash me now
Chopped the sound, and they say the thunderclaps is loud
Bang out, eliminate half your crowd
Arrow in your throat and the apple in your mouth
Rusty sawblades got ‘em caught in the grind, falling
Behind. I take your brain off of your mind
Spekt, my flow measured in nautical miles, and
Y’all can’t bite. I’m taking all of your styles
[Verse 3: billy woods]
Drones in the sky got ‘em running out of martyrs
But it’s go hard or go home, so they’re coming for soft targets
Hammer and a ratchet, meet the neighborhood Marxist
The crucial conflict is your weed smells like some garbage
Player Hater Number One, I’m at the Rucker, drawing charges
Only shoot the fair if their gun shoot the farthest
Whole game is dead, they sent me to bury the carcass
Got Indians trying to play chief, benchwarmers
Chucking up threes, too many idiot savants
Fucking up good beats. Penny for Your Thoughts posing with the
Hundreds. I “Got Beef with Da Cops”—fuck who you run with
Island-hop with Monstas, heel-clicking bail-jumpers
Diddy-bop when I bounce a grenade into your bunker
Then I go see your whiz like Night of the Hunter
Disappear your kids like a military junta
African ambassadors in the trunk of black Acuras
Circling ‘round the capital, spitting that vernacular
Driving high on the left side got me feeling like The Passenger
You overstayed your welcome like every dictator
Now shadow of the gallows pleading for a favor
Scorpion and the Frog, I know it’s in your nature
So when my gun points down, it’s pity, not hatred