[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