Louis Logic
Don’t You Even Go There
[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x2}

[Louis Logic]
How you doin'? My name's Louis, first of all, I make stupid music
For losers and beer abusers, screw ups and human sewers
I'm a cesspool myself with a head full of wealth-y
Rich and sick sh*t thoughts that helps me to sell CDs
I mastered in givin' n***as gasps
As if asthma is constrictin' to clog the blunt pa**ages
Act as if you don't want an a** whippin, see?
Sometimes bein' a pu**y can have its advantages
Isn't it glamorous to get your a**es beat
By one of the last emcees, 'til your cancellin' seats?
If the fans disagree, I make house calls
You keep it up, it'll be tough bustin' nuts without balls
I'm just an outlaw who doesn't belong
So strong I make my own squad look dumb on our songs
So when I put one of 'em on, n***as get so mad
I had to get a car system with a headphone jack

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}

[Apathy]
I've existed for eons, peons run, even three-on-one
My rhymes outshine like I got a neon tongue
In battle I'm gifted, it's like I'm cata-calysmic
The baddest to spit it, my optics read data and digits
Like I'm Neo when I master the Matrix, faster than spaceships
[Futuristic flow] But bring it back to the basics
I'm a flow fanatic, memory is photographic
When I was a little sperm, blasted out the prophylactic
Now I blow the static off your dusty phonograph
[Ap's about to blow] like the noses on some coke addicts
You wack jokes'll get your back broke
Cause I keep it gangsta like Ice Cube with jheri curls and black locs
Fast to blast like white teens in black coats
Walkin' in math cla** and clap till the gat smokes
Your girl jocks me and clocks me like a track coach
You thought you had a doper flow, [ha!] I don't think so

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}

[Celph T**led]
[Yo]
You can call the feds and the army or the f**kin' navy
But you can't stop a wild animal hungry with rabies [grrrr...]
And I'm just that, while you sayin' you got gats c*cked
Your whole platoon is lookin' like the Mister Softee mascot
I give a f**k if you Believe It or Not
I'll rip Ripley's limbs off and beat 'em with 'em till 'is body drops
It ain't a question if this sh*t is the bomb
I'll choke your b*t*h with a thong and dump 'er off on your lawn
It's funny the way I lick shots off in the sound booth
I'm so hilarious I pull walk-bys in a clown suit
My n***as keep it gator
And while your album's in stores now, it's in the trash can later
I hate a f**kin' emcee who think that they can face the god Celph T**led
I'd rather use a rifle than a microphone to snipe you
Certified officially, we got the ill flow
And make headlines like a corduroy pillow
[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}