Doctor ‘C’... //
I plan to build myself a facility before I’m forty //
A Molecular Archeo-genetic Laboratory //
That can analyze complex poetry data for me //
Even if it was recorded poorly, How extraordinary //
I frog-leap over awkward beats //
Then I separate rappers by their Carbon 14’s //
To determine the age of anything that remains //
Regardless of how the outside surface has changed //
I’ll put a curse on your name, bombard your brain //
With gamma X-rays until you burst into flames //
With my scientifically quantifiable megalo-maniacal viable style //
It’s like trying to ride a bull //
Let’s have a dictionary duel after school //
Check me into a nice Cedars Sinai room //
So I can get sick as the flu, spitting the truth //
If you ain’t got this album you’re missing the proof //
Prepare for your doom, my nuclear rocket plumes //
Glow against the pale background of the moon //
Toxic fumes spoil complete stocks of fruits and foods //
Burning flammable boxes of booze //
Got in the groove even though I’m not in the mood //
Motherfucker you didn’t win because I can’t lose //
Give the fans a chance to choose? Fuck you //
Who’s the illest? Who’s it really up to? //
Rapid fire, you better run for the pacifier //
Tie you up and drag you in the saliva quagmire //
‘Til your oxygen expires and your lungs dry up //
Cause you said ‘Bis ain’t dope, you’re a damn liar //
Assassin for hire over beats by Payas, flow like the Tigris //
Euphrates with the eye of the tiger in my iris //
Canibus is a fighter, motherfucker my great grandfather was Irish //
Let’s roll the dices, I’ll break you like young Tyson //
Give me the Mic man, I don’t need no hype men //
Put a thousand on me, put one on him //
I’ll tear off his limbs, throw him in and tell him to swim //
Yo, I’ll soak that sugar coated shit in soy sauce //
Tell the FCC boss, ‘Turn that noise off,’ //
Call Detroit’s Mafia boss, tell him //
‘Yo, I’ve got a job for you, I want you to bust his balls //
Drop him off by Niagara Falls //
Write my name on a banana and put the banana between his jaws //
Nobody disrespects lyrical law //
I’m the best there ever is and the best there ever was //
Train like a grunt face down in the mud //
With blood, sweat and tears sucking it up //
Yo, you wonder where I am right now //
I’m probably somewhere on the microphone fucking it up //
Dead or alive Canibus will live through the rhyme //
To be the illest on the Mic is a mission of mine //
Spitting divine, you can’t get it twisted this time //
Vocal with a mirror to make sure my lips is in line //
Doctor C, Ph.D., graduated from UMG //
Bright as the LCD display on a new MP //
Prototype of a true emcee //
With 3-D topography maps you can’t see //
The butcher on Broad Street wrapping CD’s //
In butcher paper, doing artwork with Sharpies //
If you don’t like the quality then talk to me //
What the fuck you on a website for you creep? //
Punching the keys, remember that sound //
That’s exactly what it sounds like when I’m punching your teeth //
Kick a rap bitch! If you’ve got the gumption to speak //
Stand next to me I might put a lump in your meat //
Dis you and your man, double the beef //
To tell you the truth I thought your rebuttal was weak //
‘Round the Outside’ blah blah, etc., etc. //
The body of my literature is bigger than South America //
Nigga look, this is all I’ve got to say //
Suck my P-H-D-I-C-K! //

Lyrics submitted by p609

Dr. C Ph. D song meanings
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