Louis Logic
Mother Molesters
[Intro: Majik Most and Celph T**led]
[Majik Most]
Yeah. Chelsea Clinton. Where you at b*t*h?
[Celph T**led Speaking]
Yeeeaaahhhh! You monkey motherf**kers
This is Celph T**led, the motherf**kin' Trife-A-Saurus Rex
And I've got my motherf**kin' n***a Majik Most
About to molest every female b*t*h in your f**kin' family
You want more info? Dial 1-900-Get-F**ked-Up
For twenty-five st**ches a minute
I don't give a f**k if you're handicapped
You talk that sh*t, I'll bust a handy cap in that a**
Yo, Majik, bust them in the head and leave 'em retarded
Bring that sh*t, n***a!

[Verse 1: Majik Most]
Yo, Majik Most is here now—stop tryna rhyme
Even your mom says you just wastin' your time
I'll catch you in line as you apply for Medicaid
And beat you in the skull with a prosthetic leg
Majik's got it made, all in-between your girl's thighs
Any tough guys get smashed and pulverized
I'm off the hook like fish alibi's—why diss?
It's high risk, try this, die quick in your whip
With a windshield wiper through your iris
You not feelin' this? I'll crush your grandmother's hip
Then strip the emergency bracelet off her wrist
I love to shoot the gift
Man, I rock a Santa suit when inside a vocal booth
I'll blast you through the roof
Just to show and prove
Oh you still want beef? (ah ha ha)
I'll bust your chops
F**k you up like a Cyclops in a weed spot with no eye drops, motherf**kers!
Hip hop is back (yeah yeah)
But you're a faggot in drag
Rockin' a dress
That used to be your dad's
I'll choke you with your do-rag
Slam you on a concrete slab—oh, you mad?!
'Cause Majik Most is so dope, I whack kids
Hijack the city bus with my man Dutchma**ive
Hit the strip club—Celph and Ap got free pa**es
Every verse I write, considered cla**ic
[Verse 2: Apathy]
Yo, I suplex Superman like a girl in a skirt
Bury you in the dirt, rappers get placed in a world of hurt
You tryin' to mack a dame but your game doesn't work
You should feel lame and ashamed when you go home and j*rk
'Cause I be havin' big t**ty b*t*hes buying my shirt
While you lurkin' in the bushes with a perverted smirk
So jealous of the way that I be ridin' the track
You put your Walkman on my rap and fantasize that you're Ap
But I'll be sh*ttin' on you nerd motherf**kers for fun
'Til I make you mad enough to come to school with a gun
Beat you up until you cry and take your money for lunch
Or they'll be mopping up your face by the twentieth punch
You faggots get ghost, puttin' holes in the fabric of clothes
My automatic blows metal through the back of your domes
I'm mackin' your hoes
Rapper flows that'll roast opponents
Who play me close or battle with Majik Most

[Verse 3: Louis Logic]
Stop a second and drop your weapon b*t*h (biiitch!)
I meant to kill you back when the doctor stepped in and said your mom was pregnant
Stomp the section of her stomach where a baby doll sleeps
Roast beef with both feet wearing weighted golf cleats
Leave behind a blood trail and a bottle of Seagram's Gin
Covered in my bloody finger print and blame my evil twin
But since I didn't see you there, I'll burn your studio
And fill your top with warm slugs like you turned marsupial
I'm like a savage bushman chargin' through the outback
I'll kick you in your a**'s cushion whether with or without rap
Whether with or without Ap, Celph, or Majik Most
I'll smash your nose and drag your ghost right out from your fractured bones
I'll have your folks singin' church songs, dressed in black
Your former fan's only question asked is: "Where's that herb gone?"
I'll stab you, carve you with a sharp knife and tag you
With bad news so you know my name and what have you
[Verse 4: Celph T**led]
A lot of rappers gonna die this year and that's the truth
And I'll probably end up responsible for a few
Communication ain't a problem—my guns speak all languages
Gimme what I want or be a dumb n***a—brainless!
I'm the complete opposite with drug fiend chicks
I know straight-edge b*t*hes that'll smoke crack to suck my d**k
Floss through your hood and stack chips by the cases
I've got more whips than a slave-master dominatrix
I won't even do a cameo—I get paid for my ad-libs
Visit your girl and f**k her from her baby-back ribs
You might as well go snow-skiing or somethin'
For the only chance you'll get to rock ice without frontin'
Throw a monkey wrench in your program—make you go ape sh*t
Attach your head to a launching space ship—give you a face lift
It's basic: bury your corpse under the basement
I'm ill enough to start a drug war with the Jamaicans
Don't make me have to pop your collar bone
Put the silence on the chrome and let my Rottweilers roam
Thirsty for blood, ready to shatter your brain
I talk a lot of sh*t on records but I can back up my claims