What if I ran into you wit’ a Pogo stick?
 Hopped up on top of you rappers like a Jehovah’s Witness?
 Wit’ a photo of Jesus and a paper pamphlet
 And I threw up more churches like I was playin’ Hamlet?
 Syllable burnin’, that internal damage
 Swing, batter, batter, but then I lay back on a hammock
 Under an oak tree, like I was peelin’ pecans
 But instead, I’m peelin’ rappers’ heads, makin’ a sam-a-wich
 Pick up a 22. and put a bullet inside of a
 [bad word] from Westside, a 1987 box
 I’m headed up, yeah, headed for bucks
 [bad word] ‘em all, make ‘em feel my dread like I had a head of locks
 Feel every bump like you had dead shocks,
 But I hopped on the [bad word]  beat and I worldwide chopped
 Wanna [bad word] wit’ Tech N9ne, twist up the pine
 And smoke a beat wit’ Mr. Busta Rhymes, well, sure, why not?
 Really don’t need to show any more of my [bad word] 
 But [bad word] across the stadium in a pair of your socks
 In a trench coat wit’ the pencil and a watch
 Then drop a verse before you can focus to read the clocks
 Slumerican is out of control
 Heat it up, beat it up, then I gotta go
 But I’m a dump [bad word]  just send another load
 Peter Piper dump a pile of peppers in your throat
 Wit’ an alien probe