Lyrics

[Intro: Poops] Fuck it. Let's call this a promo. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Yeah. This is how we're gonna do it. I am the one they call "Poops." Many don't know my name. Check it. Still, it doesn't matter. Park Slope. Son, yeah. Uh. Check [Verse 1: Poops] It doesn't matter if you was raised in a hard place 'Cause I still leave your squad laced Watch it, ghetto boy, as if I was Scarface I'm moving in an odd pace of motion Music's a notion. And when played I use a verse to surf over soundwaves I'm live with my vibe with whoms I reside To energize many lives, I murder—you heard, yeah? When I go all-out, MCs play the inside like a paranoid hermit The political war started and the president's my target So these next bars written were made to imprison Clinton As he listens, he's offered to a trapped hostage Our metamorphous developed by our rap arts When are the lies done from snakes that are fake? As an item from a black market. A musical mercenary Who will accomplish and conquer this industry Dictating misery through my delivery Mentally, through sound, dominating Earth to become my embassy Houses scream, "Punishment," tortures are so extreme Never seen—none expected me 'cause the Lethal, unconcentrated evil was camouflaged by a mellow melody Toxic, hypnotic copies got grit Taking your mind hostage with garbage Once you like it, you could try, man But an escape is useless as a blind man's optics You got it. Once I state a line, I invade your state of mind To be coming so bright with intellect and to reflects light of a greater shine Poops is a gentleman? Guess again. Pure, living hell Is how I prevail, won the best with them I be wrecking and first to a frail skeleton Then to a single-cell specimen [Outro: Poops] Yeah. Something like that. Keeping it more than real—just a mic, a tape deck, and an aerosol. For Bobbito, 89 Tec 9. Check the rhyme. Stretch Armstrong