With Us - Intellectual

[Intro; Cage]

Yo, Weathermen, Molemen, Copywrite ‘78 and… King!

[Verse 1: Cage]

Somebody better call the cops! We’ll throw rocks and smash shit

‘Cause I’m down to the most intricate ligament detachment action

Closed-captions are the gross fractions

Of the percentage of songwriters that host caskets

Wanna see the Cage album or get clapped to hear it?

Bludgeon you to death, minutes later shooting your spirit

Shooting a porn I got a quick role, empty the clip

In this bitch, fuck the wound ‘til the slug’s up in my dick hole

Wasting mine and the crowd’s time

Thought you had beef standing there with a cow’s spine

And I’m eating the heart

Get beaten apart, painting with your arms, leaking the art

Somebody get this kid a bandage

While I’m stabbing where your adrenaline gland is in front of cameras

Trying to balance a nuclear warhead on your forehead

Pulling soul food through your stomach to dip the cornbread

[Hook: Copywrite]

Fucking with us, we’ll leave you stuck in the dirt

With your fiancé and my fingers up in her skirt

Weathermen for life as long as I’m stuck on the Earth

And if a bitch don’t swallow, what the fuck is she worth?

(We get grimy!) Haven’t showered for days, flies behind me

(Grimy!) I can pick your lock in six seconds—time me

(Grimy!) Ain’t give a shit if you like me or don’t like me

As long as when you see us, you keep your mouth locked tightly

[Verse 2: Copywrite]

You’ll shit your drawers before I spit two bars

I’m everything you’re ashamed to admit you are

When God said, “Let there be light,” I appeared

You thought I debuted on World Premiere? I was here

Made a blind man tell me what color my eyes are

Made a deaf girl complain on what level the highs are

Last one to cyph with us, I sliced them up. To whom

I’m shitting on, you ain’t nice enough to waste a written on

The Weathermen, we’re coming up to get you

I can’t think of a stage name dumb enough to fit you, I’ll hit you

With six two-by-fours, crews I floor

Pick up his watch, turn to his bitch like, “You my whore!”

I’m too hot—stop this man. When I was born

Third-degree burns were left on the doctor’s hands

You want mine? The mic’s your dad’s buckle

These punchlines are spiked with brass knuckles

Underwater I breathe and move quicker than you

I know heads that been dead for decades sicker than you

They’re my dogs, I’ll sick ‘em on you, and my pets

Are vicious. Shit, I’m the owner—go fetch my slippers

Besides us, there ain’t too many ripping

My brainstorm floods with enough thought for y’all to skinny-dip in

And I forever burn steady since Adam

Was put in a garden. If y’all weren’t ready, you shouldn’t have started