Don’t You Even Go There

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x2}

[Louis Logic]
How you doin'? My name's Louis, first of all, I make stupid music
For losers and beer abusers, screw ups and human sewers
I'm a cesspool myself with a head full of wealth-y
Rich and sick shit thoughts that helps me to sell CDs
I mastered in givin' niggas gasps
As if asthma is constrictin' their clogged-up lung passages
Act as if you don't want an ass whippin, see?
Sometimes bein' a pussy can have its advantages
Isn't it glamorous to get your asses beat
By one of the last emcees, 'til your cancellin' seats?
If the fans disagree, I make house calls
You keep it up, it'll be tough bustin' nuts without balls
I'm just an outlaw who doesn't belong
So strong I make my own squad look dumb on our songs
So when I put one of 'em on, niggas get so mad
I had to get a car system with a headphone jack

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}

[Apathy]
I've existed for eons, peons run, even three-on-one
My rhymes outshine like I got a neon tongue
In battle I'm gifted, it's like I'm cata-calysmic
The baddest to spit it, my optics read data and digits
Like I'm Neo when I master the Matrix, faster than spaceships
[Futuristic flow] But bring it back to the basics
I'm a flow fanatic, memory is photographic
When I was a little sperm, blasted out the prophylactic
Now I blow the static off your dusty phonograph
[Ap's about to blow] like the noses on some coke addicts
You wack jokes'll get your back broke
Cause I keep it gangsta like Ice Cube with jheri curls and black locs
Fast to blast like white teens in black coats
Walkin' in math class and clap till the gat smokes
Your girl jocks me and clocks me like a track coach
You thought you had a doper flow, [ha!] I don't think so

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}

[Celph Titled]
[Yo]
You can call the feds and the army or the fuckin' navy
But you can't stop a wild animal hungry with rabies [grrrr...]
And I'm just that, while you sayin' you got gats cocked
Your whole platoon is lookin' like the Mister Softee mascot
I give a fuck if you Believe It or Not
I'll rip Ripley's limbs off and beat 'em with 'em till 'is body drops
It ain't a question if this shit is the bomb
I'll choke your bitch with a thong and dump 'er off on your lawn
It's funny the way I lick shots off in the sound booth
I'm so hilarious I pull walk-bys in a clown suit
My niggas keep it gator
And while your album's in stores now, it's in the trash can later
I hate a fuckin' emcee who think that they can face the god Celph Titled
I'd rather use a rifle than a microphone to snipe you
Certified officially, we got the ill flow
And make headlines like a corduroy pillow

[Lauryn Hill: Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there] {x4}