It Doesn’t Matter

[Intro: Poops]
Fuck it. Let’s call this a promo. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Yeah. This is how we’re gonna do it. I am the one they call “Poops.” Many don’t know my name. Check it. Still, it doesn’t matter. Park Slope. Son, yeah. Uh. Check

[Verse 1: Poops]
It doesn’t matter if you was raised in a hard place
‘Cause I still leave your squad laced
Watch it, ghetto boy, as if I was Scarface
I’m moving in an odd pace of motion
Music’s a notion. And when played
I use a verse to surf over soundwaves
I’m live with my vibe with whoms I reside
To energize many lives, I murder—you heard, yeah?
When I go all-out, MCs play the inside like a paranoid hermit
The political war started and the president’s my target
So these next bars written were made to imprison Clinton
As he listens, he’s offered to a trapped hostage
Our metamorphous developed by our rap arts
When are the lies done from snakes that are fake?
As an item from a black market. A musical mercenary
Who will accomplish and conquer this industry
Dictating misery through my delivery
Mentally, through sound, dominating Earth to become my embassy
Houses scream, “Punishment,” tortures are so extreme
Never seen—none expected me ‘cause the
Lethal, unconcentrated evil was camouflaged by a mellow melody
Toxic, hypnotic copies got grit
Taking your mind hostage with garbage
Once you like it, you could try, man
But an escape is useless as a blind man’s optics
You got it. Once I state a line, I invade your state of mind
To be coming so bright with intellect and to reflects light of a greater shine
Poops is a gentleman? Guess again. Pure, living hell
Is how I prevail, won the best with them
I be wrecking and first to a frail skeleton
Then to a single-cell specimen

[Outro: Poops]
Yeah. Something like that. Keeping it more than real—just a mic, a tape deck, and an aerosol. For Bobbito, 89 Tec 9. Check the rhyme. Stretch Armstrong