[Killah Priest] My pen's compulsive, obsessive It never gives itself enough credit It's explosive, Ritalin should do it Odd behavior, with the bars on paper When I write to this music, reactions It's like sadness, to laughter Though I'm spitting classics The thoughts of madness, it gives me asthma Rather than think, it sinks into deep depression Deeper questions, performing neurosurgery Words in 3-D, its sick disease discovered It slowly occurs to me Go into ya ashtray and light a roach The test results are back Let's see what I'm diagnosed or why I wrote this rap
My paper keeps gaining weight, fat shit Like this the bars might break The diet pills in my writer's skills Should I put the mic back down and wait? Not good for the heart, caffeine sixteen's Raps need more greens, when it eats, know what I mean Sentence experience hemorrhage, lyrics insulin Hydrocodone pen, oxycodone toxin when I spit hot wind With alphabets that connect syllables Ill individual, I spit visual, lyrical Go in ya ashtray and find the roach Hear the results, I'm an addict Addicted to the mic, here's the diagnose
The flow don't have enough sodium It leaks, that's why I speak from podiums I teach, two weeks have me on opium I wrote it 4pm Last night a glass pipe mic detach from life Dependency, since my entrance Instrumental CD's, influent sixteen's I'm trafficking rap Shootouts with my mind to get it back I got it like that, it's in my luggage As soon as I begin my subject I finally can go public Pay the stewardess on my mental plane Go thru customs, I might buss one If the beat feels the same Receive testimonies from past fiends Rakim spoke, I listened, took notes But when it's my time to speak Something got caught in my throat It's not fair cuz I'm still using Sorry y'all but the street music Go in ya ashtray and light a roach I got the results And laid back and read the diagnose The addict in rapping on different beats There's so many styles I wrote
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Copy to Clipboard: [Killah Priest] My pen's compulsive, obsessive It never gives itself enough credit It's explosive, Ritalin should do it Odd behavior, with the bars on paper When I write to this music, reactions It's like sadness, to laughter Though I'm spitting classics The thoughts of madness, it gives me asthma Rather than think, it sinks into deep depression Deeper questions, performing neurosurgery Words in 3-D, its sick disease discovered It slowly occurs to me Go into ya ashtray and light a roach The test results are back Let's see what I'm diagnosed or why I wrote this rap
My paper keeps gaining weight, fat shit Like this the bars might break The diet pills in my writer's skills Should I put the mic back down and wait? Not good for the heart, caffeine sixteen's Raps need more greens, when it eats, know what I mean Sentence experience hemorrhage, lyrics insulin Hydrocodone pen, oxycodone toxin when I spit hot wind With alphabets that connect syllables Ill individual, I spit visual, lyrical Go in ya ashtray and find the roach Hear the results, I'm an addict Addicted to the mic, here's the diagnose
The flow don't have enough sodium It leaks, that's why I speak from podiums I teach, two weeks have me on opium I wrote it 4pm Last night a glass pipe mic detach from life Dependency, since my entrance Instrumental CD's, influent sixteen's I'm trafficking rap Shootouts with my mind to get it back I got it like that, it's in my luggage As soon as I begin my subject I finally can go public Pay the stewardess on my mental plane Go thru customs, I might buss one If the beat feels the same Receive testimonies from past fiends Rakim spoke, I listened, took notes But when it's my time to speak Something got caught in my throat It's not fair cuz I'm still using Sorry y'all but the street music Go in ya ashtray and light a roach I got the results And laid back and read the diagnose The addict in rapping on different beats There's so many styles I wrote
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