Canser

[Intro: Charles Manson]
I don't wanna take my time going to work, I got a motorcycle and a sleeping bag and ten or fifteen girls. What the hell I wanna go off and go to work for? Work for what? Money? I got all the money in the world. I'm the king, man. I run the underworld, guy. I decide who does what and where they do it at. What am I gonna run around like I'm some teeny bopper somewhere for somebody else's money? I make the money man, I roll the nickels. The game is mine. I deal the cards

[Verse 1: Shadow The Great & Frank Castle]
Uh, yo, brain past religion, have me focus on the mission
Of murdering competition with these rolled up composition books
Loaf Gang, we go 'sane, we make Kurt go bang
While sipping that propane, we eatin' shrimp lo mein
No khaki pants to crew necks (Huh?), what are we gonna do next?
You better watch your granny 'fore she give the whole crew neck
Roll from the medulla (Huh?), no, can't get no cooler
Posted up with Kaliie Barbage down in the hula-hoop, wait
From my perspective, I'm feeling like y'all ain't get the message (Huh?)
My comments all think that being a coward's not subjective
Catch me bumping Black Moon, Oso on the side of me
Faded off some bad shrooms, thought I won the lottery
Honestly, this democracy's gotta be somethin' pocrate (Uh-uh)
Consciously, this equality's commonly labeled irony
And probably, this economy logically is so cowardly
Probably 'cause the prophecies mainly based on equality (Ayy)
Intellect minds will understand my theory (Huh?)
Simple-minded loners, listen close so you can hear me
Don't ever disrespect when you in the presence next to me
Tribe called Loaf, Loaf to the death of me

[Verse 2: Frank Castle]
Sometimes I be spitting razor blades with a downgrade
A jack of all trades, watch as I evade your membrane
With ill lyrics coursing through your veins
Yippee-ki-yayin' a motherfucker like John McClane
And stay sane, I'm cavvy in the Loaf like meat
So put him in a choke-hold with lyricism that's too dope
Religious scrolls written in deadly venom with the tip of my quill
These niggas bargain without a license to kill
Being real, chapping and busting your gun to survive
Doesn't give you a pass for your wack ass rhymes
'Cause this an art form, with skills in the culture
Eating like vultures, swinging boulders
Trying to keep the status quota
Cut up on all them with reflections of a cobra
The flow is a mixture of cocaine and baking soda
Quit the drill, the holster for my mental capacity is blasphemy
Thinking you could last for me
Theoretically or rationally, I'm an anomaly
Probably the last from the sea
A praying mantis, with lyrical parasites and flesh-eating disease
Amputee, your mind famish, you're a flame in the streets

[Verse 3: Oso Dope]
Ayo, I write-left, I bi-step
Took years to where I'll end up
With ten bucks I can rep
School for the unknown arts
The approach is like roaches
I'm scrambling for survival
The soul is taken from vinyl
It rest upon my arrival
Got attached too, no tattoos, I'm running out of time
Time is never on my side, I'm institutionalized
Inside my brain, I reside
Where pressure is into frame
Mamasay mama mamakusa
My mama say: "Venga aca"
My mama be takin' sides like she at an audition
She heard my teacher call but somehow the phone missin'
I got her to understand there's an audience to attend
Since deep is never at home then school is where I condone the rest
Nevertheless, puttin' stress on the rival
I could see it in their faces smile
[?]