[Intro]

S-A-double-Y-I-D-B-E-A-N-S-E-B

These haters wanna

And they think they gonna

Lay me down

Never

[Verse 1: High Priest]

Hold that

I'm banging 'til your eyes roll back

To be awaken from that permanent nap

If you think you gonna lay me down, you must be mistaken

I'm taking back a art forsaken

The streets patiently waiting for us to take 'em

With paramilitary precision

The bars, lift from the God

Give him vision to do it different

The gift and the curse

Shiftin' the verse, lifting the curse

Voices calling out, in reverse

Livin' the verse 'til the last become first

A thousand megahertz, your body jerks

The volts animate that

Nerves, depend swerves

But in the end, it serves the greater good

The haters wishing they could

Subliminally, I'm wishing they would

[Verse 2: Beans]

Call me Obama

The best intentions asserts the comedy

You know my occupation is professionally ill

Like don't touch, written in braille

Aim yo' money guns at me

Y'all is warm tap water tasting, unfazed me

The noose fits nicely

I'm ice tea, can't spite me

Touch a button, your future alphabetics in the blizzard

About to boo-boo on somebody tonight

Who sliced like a knife in the eleven hour of night

He spread a tantrum in the fit of love

A turntable as the world turns

Reign attempts to cleanse the city of sin

Heartbroken when the bad guys win

The apron on the cannibal reads

"Sister cooking and taste-testin' the flesh, so fresh"

Blood is the new black, we're black, my cemetery talk bury you

Caught up the amateur and quick to give it up and then it blows up

And everyone wonders why music sucks

(Who's idea needs a new bulb?)

Bring wave, barely a ripple

[?] you with a brilliance

A bison on beats

Caught you on the ways, I'm prepared

Up in ya underwear, from outta nowhere

I'm like conservatives with toilet paper, countin' every square

Seven [?] severe, plagued by the idea

With the shovel (You diggin' it?)

How I kick this, spittin' under script hard

Like the record skip while you follow a script

[Verse 3: M. Sayyid]

Like a purple lackin' the apple, I'm born to mack

Steve Job, the beat play God on the track

Genocide sinisters, turn these niggas to miniatures

Like I came thru with signatures, couple bitches in ministers

I'm just here for the game, no practice and scrimmages

Not the fame, just the images and some twisted appendages

Gettin' low on some Guinnesses

While the beat never finishes, then it's

Where we goin, Father? Farther

Away from the wack juice, close to the altar

My cult, they stay with me

Gather in a circle and shine like six fifty

I. L. Benz white coupe, I'm so crispy

Protected from the voodoo and Zulu mass against me

Gently brushing my shoulders through the century

Always suspicious over streets, I don't sleep

Spike Wrist and Sid Vicious all over the beat