The Bomb

It's like a holocaust to the boss when I toss Too much knowledge kicked then you're lost In a shuffle of feet, Jinx the fiddler And I control your mind like Hitler You bow and vow to authority See now, a s*cker with a style just boring me So I show K N O W L E D G E it might trouble you Then I transform like a Decepticon With a mic as a bomb In my right palm But I don't stay calm So panic Others can't flow so they go schizophrenic You thought I dropped a dud in your face Until you taste the blood of the ba*s Then you faint, or better yet pa*s out When I'm on the mic, believe it's a*s out You think you're raw so you draw You lose, you're hung, you bite your tongue The whole town saw in awe as you strangle A noose on your neck, and you dangle From side to side in the blazing heat You're beat, you're dead, the fools fell off You feel you're turning red It's said that your head burst And this is only the first verse Of the bomb Don't break up the fight let them rumble Over the years I've watched some go super-bad quick Now the smell of the pen has got them sick to the stomach Now ask yourself, who's stupid? I take funky, funky beats and I loop it And pimp slap you in the face with the ba*s And the boom from the bomb that I drop, stop You have a flat top as a fashion I love black women with a pa*sion But when they gotta go and show their a*s in I gotta clown the hoes, yeah You gotta watch the ones with the big derrieres They'll steer you wrong Ice Cube's got it going on, hit me For the gangster boogie two times for the gangster rhyme The system ain't wholesome They want to put a young brother in Folsom And others see me on lockdown But I come up foul then they get knocked out, word To the brother that rolls the herb Everybody getting knocked to the curb like that Jinx got the gat, and it's a fact He'll kick a funky beat to peel your cap Now who's the mack? Who's the hoe? Who's the trick? I got many, many styles won't you take a pick But don't be alarmed When I trip and stumble and fumble And drop the, drop the bomb I'm solo, you ask how I'm living Still dropping more shit than a pigeon With the L, the E, the N, the C, the H The M, the O, the B, the great Lyrics that make the beat swing and I gotcha It's the hip-hopper that don't like coppers And if you try to upset the pot, son You get kicked in the chest like a shotgun I make the beats, I make the breaks I make the rhymes that make you shake Make you find Ice Cube never caught in the middle I make shit to kick you in the a*s a little And still never hesitate to stutter step Or bust a repetition on the mic Still dissing all the hype From left to right How many left to fight? So what that Lench Mob like?