Who Writes Your Lyrics
๐ต 2891 characters
โฑ๏ธ 2:43 duration
๐ ID: 9734596
๐ Lyrics
I'm the flyest MC, the finest MC
The nicest MC, oh, that's boring see
There's another MPC
So why you think most hip-hop sounds the same, except for me? Ha
Cryptic kick shit from the crypt
Sadistic lick hits with wit, I'm quick
Rip crickets in a wicket, I'm plain wicked
Thick in the rig, wearing kid lipstick
I wreck shit on the next shit
Spit it in ya ear bit like a Q-tip
Big silly bitch wickedly witch, likely split in a stitch
No dick but talk big, carry a big stick
So I'm a girl, yeah I'm white
And I write all night with a bare swingin' light
On the computer alright, a producer alright
I produced this song
So you know who you are, you know you were wrong
No, I was not in that porn on Golden Blonde
Got it goin' on, more James Bond than Sean John
Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes
And I love Ferris Bueller like chi-ki-chi-ka
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Damn ya, you're enamored, I'm a slam ya
Hotter than your can down in Alabama
Where's my camera, I need a Kodak moment
Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer
Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam
Slaughter a man on the microphone
Pardon me, ma'am, was that part of a man or your son?
I just whipped on the mic and sent home
Big quick shit, New York Stockholm
Kike and a Wop wipin' a cock, walkin' the block
Drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
I get that a lot, yeah, oh
Stop take stock, shh, let me show you what I got
Made up my mind, like made it up I imagined it
I don't get a mind, I abandoned it in a cabinet
So I could be a candidate
For writin' a few hits, walkin' a few pits
And cashin' in on that shit
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
Uh, uh
I put out my first tape in '94
If you got one, I'll buy it, I don't got one no more
It was called Mitch Better, get my bunny
That shit was shitty but funny
I admit it was dumb, but I did it with no money
In '95, my first CD called Strictly Platinum
But it didn't go Platinum, it went back to them
And instead of waitin' for someone to put me on
I started a label, ran it 'til the money was gone
Then came along, then was gone
Money money money
Don't try to make it with your songs
But, like Salt n Pepa in El Segundo
We push it a long (push it)
And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP
So I got egg beaters, threw 'em back at the backpacks on Sixth Avenue passing me
At the Bagel Buffet, planted a bomb next to Grays
And when the records rained, I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in L.A.
It's all OK 'cause when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record
I renamed it Pharaoh Monch featuring Chubby Checker
Ha-ha-ha, mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar? The shit is deep
The nicest MC, oh, that's boring see
There's another MPC
So why you think most hip-hop sounds the same, except for me? Ha
Cryptic kick shit from the crypt
Sadistic lick hits with wit, I'm quick
Rip crickets in a wicket, I'm plain wicked
Thick in the rig, wearing kid lipstick
I wreck shit on the next shit
Spit it in ya ear bit like a Q-tip
Big silly bitch wickedly witch, likely split in a stitch
No dick but talk big, carry a big stick
So I'm a girl, yeah I'm white
And I write all night with a bare swingin' light
On the computer alright, a producer alright
I produced this song
So you know who you are, you know you were wrong
No, I was not in that porn on Golden Blonde
Got it goin' on, more James Bond than Sean John
Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes
And I love Ferris Bueller like chi-ki-chi-ka
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Damn ya, you're enamored, I'm a slam ya
Hotter than your can down in Alabama
Where's my camera, I need a Kodak moment
Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer
Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam
Slaughter a man on the microphone
Pardon me, ma'am, was that part of a man or your son?
I just whipped on the mic and sent home
Big quick shit, New York Stockholm
Kike and a Wop wipin' a cock, walkin' the block
Drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
I get that a lot, yeah, oh
Stop take stock, shh, let me show you what I got
Made up my mind, like made it up I imagined it
I don't get a mind, I abandoned it in a cabinet
So I could be a candidate
For writin' a few hits, walkin' a few pits
And cashin' in on that shit
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
Uh, uh
I put out my first tape in '94
If you got one, I'll buy it, I don't got one no more
It was called Mitch Better, get my bunny
That shit was shitty but funny
I admit it was dumb, but I did it with no money
In '95, my first CD called Strictly Platinum
But it didn't go Platinum, it went back to them
And instead of waitin' for someone to put me on
I started a label, ran it 'til the money was gone
Then came along, then was gone
Money money money
Don't try to make it with your songs
But, like Salt n Pepa in El Segundo
We push it a long (push it)
And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP
So I got egg beaters, threw 'em back at the backpacks on Sixth Avenue passing me
At the Bagel Buffet, planted a bomb next to Grays
And when the records rained, I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in L.A.
It's all OK 'cause when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record
I renamed it Pharaoh Monch featuring Chubby Checker
Ha-ha-ha, mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar? The shit is deep
โฑ๏ธ Synced Lyrics
[00:06.90] I'm the flyest MC, the finest MC
[00:08.70] The nicest MC, oh, that's boring see
[00:10.46] There's another MPC
[00:11.15] So why you think most hip-hop sounds the same, except for me? Ha
[00:14.29] Cryptic kick shit from the crypt
[00:15.99] Sadistic lick hits with wit, I'm quick
[00:17.53] Rip crickets in a wicket, I'm plain wicked
[00:19.61] Thick in the rig, wearing kid lipstick
[00:21.26] I wreck shit on the next shit
[00:22.89] Spit it in ya ear bit like a Q-tip
[00:24.37] Big silly bitch wickedly witch, likely split in a stitch
[00:26.80] No dick but talk big, carry a big stick
[00:28.64] So I'm a girl, yeah I'm white
[00:29.90] And I write all night with a bare swingin' light
[00:31.81] On the computer alright, a producer alright
[00:33.69] I produced this song
[00:34.72] So you know who you are, you know you were wrong
[00:36.42] No, I was not in that porn on Golden Blonde
[00:37.81] Got it goin' on, more James Bond than Sean John
[00:39.93] Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes
[00:41.56] And I love Ferris Bueller like chi-ki-chi-ka
[00:43.80] Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[00:45.92] I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[00:48.52] Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[00:50.35] I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[01:01.32] Damn ya, you're enamored, I'm a slam ya
[01:03.16] Hotter than your can down in Alabama
[01:04.51] Where's my camera, I need a Kodak moment
[01:06.50] Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer
[01:07.95] Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam
[01:09.29] Slaughter a man on the microphone
[01:10.39] Pardon me, ma'am, was that part of a man or your son?
[01:12.36] I just whipped on the mic and sent home
[01:13.74] Big quick shit, New York Stockholm
[01:15.54] Kike and a Wop wipin' a cock, walkin' the block
[01:17.65] Drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
[01:19.45] I get that a lot, yeah, oh
[01:21.08] Stop take stock, shh, let me show you what I got
[01:22.94] Made up my mind, like made it up I imagined it
[01:24.72] I don't get a mind, I abandoned it in a cabinet
[01:27.07] So I could be a candidate
[01:28.12] For writin' a few hits, walkin' a few pits
[01:30.22] And cashin' in on that shit
[01:30.24] Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[01:32.17] I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[01:34.77] Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[01:37.59] Uh, uh
[01:39.39]
[01:47.48] I put out my first tape in '94
[01:48.92] If you got one, I'll buy it, I don't got one no more
[01:50.52] It was called Mitch Better, get my bunny
[01:51.98] That shit was shitty but funny
[01:52.99] I admit it was dumb, but I did it with no money
[01:54.80] In '95, my first CD called Strictly Platinum
[01:56.70] But it didn't go Platinum, it went back to them
[01:58.46] And instead of waitin' for someone to put me on
[01:59.83] I started a label, ran it 'til the money was gone
[02:01.97] Then came along, then was gone
[02:03.92] Money money money
[02:04.96] Don't try to make it with your songs
[02:06.15] But, like Salt n Pepa in El Segundo
[02:07.48] We push it a long (push it)
[02:09.37] And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP
[02:11.36] So I got egg beaters, threw 'em back at the backpacks on Sixth Avenue passing me
[02:14.47] At the Bagel Buffet, planted a bomb next to Grays
[02:16.26] And when the records rained, I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in L.A.
[02:18.92] It's all OK 'cause when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record
[02:21.81] I renamed it Pharaoh Monch featuring Chubby Checker
[02:24.26] Ha-ha-ha, mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar? The shit is deep
[02:30.75]
[00:08.70] The nicest MC, oh, that's boring see
[00:10.46] There's another MPC
[00:11.15] So why you think most hip-hop sounds the same, except for me? Ha
[00:14.29] Cryptic kick shit from the crypt
[00:15.99] Sadistic lick hits with wit, I'm quick
[00:17.53] Rip crickets in a wicket, I'm plain wicked
[00:19.61] Thick in the rig, wearing kid lipstick
[00:21.26] I wreck shit on the next shit
[00:22.89] Spit it in ya ear bit like a Q-tip
[00:24.37] Big silly bitch wickedly witch, likely split in a stitch
[00:26.80] No dick but talk big, carry a big stick
[00:28.64] So I'm a girl, yeah I'm white
[00:29.90] And I write all night with a bare swingin' light
[00:31.81] On the computer alright, a producer alright
[00:33.69] I produced this song
[00:34.72] So you know who you are, you know you were wrong
[00:36.42] No, I was not in that porn on Golden Blonde
[00:37.81] Got it goin' on, more James Bond than Sean John
[00:39.93] Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes
[00:41.56] And I love Ferris Bueller like chi-ki-chi-ka
[00:43.80] Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[00:45.92] I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[00:48.52] Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[00:50.35] I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[01:01.32] Damn ya, you're enamored, I'm a slam ya
[01:03.16] Hotter than your can down in Alabama
[01:04.51] Where's my camera, I need a Kodak moment
[01:06.50] Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer
[01:07.95] Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam
[01:09.29] Slaughter a man on the microphone
[01:10.39] Pardon me, ma'am, was that part of a man or your son?
[01:12.36] I just whipped on the mic and sent home
[01:13.74] Big quick shit, New York Stockholm
[01:15.54] Kike and a Wop wipin' a cock, walkin' the block
[01:17.65] Drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
[01:19.45] I get that a lot, yeah, oh
[01:21.08] Stop take stock, shh, let me show you what I got
[01:22.94] Made up my mind, like made it up I imagined it
[01:24.72] I don't get a mind, I abandoned it in a cabinet
[01:27.07] So I could be a candidate
[01:28.12] For writin' a few hits, walkin' a few pits
[01:30.22] And cashin' in on that shit
[01:30.24] Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[01:32.17] I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[01:34.77] Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
[01:37.59] Uh, uh
[01:39.39]
[01:47.48] I put out my first tape in '94
[01:48.92] If you got one, I'll buy it, I don't got one no more
[01:50.52] It was called Mitch Better, get my bunny
[01:51.98] That shit was shitty but funny
[01:52.99] I admit it was dumb, but I did it with no money
[01:54.80] In '95, my first CD called Strictly Platinum
[01:56.70] But it didn't go Platinum, it went back to them
[01:58.46] And instead of waitin' for someone to put me on
[01:59.83] I started a label, ran it 'til the money was gone
[02:01.97] Then came along, then was gone
[02:03.92] Money money money
[02:04.96] Don't try to make it with your songs
[02:06.15] But, like Salt n Pepa in El Segundo
[02:07.48] We push it a long (push it)
[02:09.37] And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP
[02:11.36] So I got egg beaters, threw 'em back at the backpacks on Sixth Avenue passing me
[02:14.47] At the Bagel Buffet, planted a bomb next to Grays
[02:16.26] And when the records rained, I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in L.A.
[02:18.92] It's all OK 'cause when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record
[02:21.81] I renamed it Pharaoh Monch featuring Chubby Checker
[02:24.26] Ha-ha-ha, mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar? The shit is deep
[02:30.75]