I radiate like plutonium rods that glow //
Geiger-counters drum roll when I start to flow //
Patriarch with the heart of Napoleon Bonaparte //
Stomp across continents to conquer my art //
I’m a millennium lyricist, Area-51 physicist //
Rhymes hot enough to melt the wax off the turntable before the DJ even starts spinning it //
My raps could melt the wax right off the back of Kid Icarus //
Sharper than the shit you shank niggas with //
Sharper than scissor tips, sharper than rings on Rza’s fist //
It’s ridiculous how so many of you niggas figure that //
Maybe we can get a name if Canibus disses us //
I know how you niggas think //
You figure since you already a pussy you might as well give me syphilis //
Envious ‘cause your rhymes are infinite //
And you’re lyrically limited to the little boxes you’re living in //
I’m as dangerous as they come, dangerous with or without a gun //
I’ve been dangerous from day one //
Rhyme flows explode like pyros //
Stick to your ribs like chicken and thick gravy from Roscoe’s //
You get your head flown if you dumb in the dome //
Or struck with some stones ‘till you feel numb in the bones //
You better keep your big mouth closed //
Before I stick the muzzle of my chrome in that hole under your nose //
Send a signal to my index and tell it to fold //
In the direction of my wrist bones to release your soul //
I told you to freeze, if I was you I would have froze //
But you chose the other route and got blown full of holes //
Pistol to your mug, cripple your tongue, rip through your lungs //
Write your name on your tombstone scribbled in blood //
Come on, give me a little love //
There anybody out there that never felt one rhyme that Canibus bus’ed? //
You a liar, liar, pants on fire //
Watch the Goat with the ghostwriter get slaughtered by a tiger //
Saw his video, uh, yeah //
Smeared his career like doo-doo inside a diaper //
My style is sicker than infected women and men //
I’m so raw I could catch AIDS without sticking it in //
Flip and dip like shrimps and scampi //
Switch my language like a black kid raised by a Spanish nanny //
To a level you could never explain //
‘Cause compared to me your brain is the size of a sand grain //
A real pain in the ass that got smacked for saying my name //
And now you look like a ass in pain //
Guess what? Got ‘F’-ed up ‘cause you shouldn’t have stood up //
Sweeter than a handful of granulated sugar //
Niggas running they mouth like I can’t get to them //
But watch the shit hit the fan when that cat Can pull up //
No question, get wrecked in less than a nanosecond //
For messing with me or my brethren //
You can’t stop aggression, you can’t hold back what’s destine //
And you definitely can’t coach perfection //
Be the only nigga standing after Armageddon //
Take a hammer and smash the stone your name was etched in //
Then I’ll announce that I’m running for the new election //
Anybody with an objection gets the death-sentence //
Death by lethal-injection, death by being beheaded //
Death by getting shot with a weapon, but if you want to be remembered //
Then death by getting your head severed is an honorable way to end it //

If I said it once, I say it a thousand times //
I’ve got thousands of rhymes, the rechargeable alkaline kind //
You want a piece of mine? Fine, we can take it outside //
Otherwise your wasting your time //
‘Cause I’m gonna shine past the one-triple-nine //
Niggas gamble and damage their eyes //
Going blind trying to keep up with these lyrical lines //
Type of nigga you can’t flow behind without a dope rhyme //
Mess around and get clothes-lined ‘till you nose-dive //
We can rhyme fair-and-square or fair in a sphere //
Anyplace, anywhere ya’ll niggas ain’t got a prayer //
‘Cause Doomsday is near, faggot niggas is scared //
They stand and stare as I appear upon a cushion of air //
With a long-white beard flaming //
Hot enough to sunburn Satan //
Hotter than white people taking vacation //
Out in Virginia, out in the sun baking //
Sun baking in gamma-ray radiation ‘till they skin color look Cajun //
Mother-fuckers start aging ‘till the point where they faces shrivel up like raisins //
And they become cancer patients //
This is how we do it when we chilling in the V-A //
Can-I-Bus getting busy on the P-A //
System, yeah, I get in ‘em //
With a lyrical algorithm liable to kill ‘em //
My style will get in ‘em, way up in ‘em //
Face don’t belong on the Source, it should be on the Shroud of Turin for certain //
Grab mics and murder shit //
As wicked as Satan worshippers going to Catholic Church services //
You heard of this new lyrical verbalist //

Yo, yo, yo,
I kick a verse at six hundred and sixty-six megahertz //
Make lightening flash across the sky every time I curse //
Six hundred and sixty-six flashes //
Give out six hundred and sixty-six lashes //
To the backs of six hundred and sixty-six Masters of Ceremony has-beens //
Put a crown of thorns on whoever the king of rap is //
If he’s a Catholic I’ll nail him to a crucifix //
Then I’ll beat him ‘till he’s blackish-blueish //
Then perform acupuncture with six hundred and sixty-six toothpicks //
Beat him with two whips with pieces of broken glass glued to it //
Your whole crew get spayed and neutered //
As soon as I aim and shoot it you get slayed with bullets //
Your armored cars and your Kevlar vests is useless //
I’m going to hit all of you pussies like group sex //

Lyrics submitted by p609

103 Jamz song meanings
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