Top Dog

[Intro: Viro the Virus]
It's now time for our feature presentation
Jersey's Finest...
It's going down...
Back in effect
Alright okay, check it out
Yeah, yeah, yeah

[Verse 1: Viro the Virus]
Stampeding like a psycho Rhino
It's the wino named Viro and I know
You can't see my flow with either of your eyeholes
Try and get played like Tyco
I snipe foes nocturnal with night glows
And ride out back to the hideout to light dro
Too much to deal with with ill shit steal your meal ticket real quick
Then flip the kill switch
A bio-hazard rhyming bastard
Grab the mic and lightning flashes, then rappers turn to piles of ashes
Multi-syllabic with cult-like status
Cold Colt 45 and a ho tied in my attic
Pour some out on the floor for Rick James
Think of Dirt McGirt and do the same thing again
From the womb to the tomb, my momentum gains
And music flows through it like it’s dope in your veins

[Hook: Viro The Virus]
Yeah, V shot calls like top dog
An advocate to sex, drugs, and hip hop, off the wall
Sick dope, dope sick
Yeah, to all of you and y’all and all of them listen

V shot calls like top dog
An advocate to sex, drugs, and hip hop, off the wall
Sick dope, dope sick
Yeah, listen at full attention, you don’t wanna miss him

[Verse 2: Viro The Virus]
Yo, you can never bend me like a jheri curl
Even when I’m 'bout to hurl off a St. Pauli Girl
With no money for bubbly
I still get balls-deep in barkeeps from Coyote Ugly
Got a PhD in advanced flow studies
That keep it bouncing like Man Show Juggies
Tighter than bosom buddies, good, bad and hungry
And got mad hoodrats that love me (Why?)
Cause I’m fluid and I’m well-hung
Do it till it’s well done to leave losers with their bells rung
Bring the beef like meatloaf
Every MC’s nightmare but fans say he’s such a dreamboat
From a cloud of weed smoke I emerge
With obscene quotes and rhymes with fighting words
Out for glory and whores with nice curves
And I can end your story at the tip of the iceberg

[Hook]

[Verse 3: Viro The Virus]
I’m either too trashed to dance licking acid stamps
In the classic max stance with a trashy tramp
Or inhaling spliffs in Motel 6
With underage runaways taking black tail flicks
Or drinking gin with a harlot
Stepping on peasants for pestering me to touch the hem of my garment
Or in the stu taking bong hits
Morphing my morbid portraits to song to put em on disc
Either way I’m not the kid to play
My display peels your mask away then leave your masquerade in disarray
Hung with fellas who had the map for Zelda
Now I hang with cats with blunt wraps and paraphernalia
Fulltime failures plotting on part-time bank tellers
To get dough for a crib with a wine cellar
Boy I tell you they don’t write em like they used to
So I hit the stu and cooked this up like couscous, here

[Hook]