Who Writes Your Lyrics

[Verse 1]
I'm the flyest MC the finest MC
The nicest MC oh that's boring see, there's another MPC
So why you think most hip-hop sounds the same except for me?
Cryptic kick shit from the crypt
Sadistic lick hits with wit I'm quick
Rip crickets in a wicket I'm plain wicked
Thick in the rig wearing kid lipstick
I wreck shit on the next shit
Spit it in ya ear bit like a Q-Tip
Big silly bitch wickedy witch lickety split
In a sitch no dick but talk big carry a big stick
So I'm a girl, yeah I'm white
And I write all night with a bare swingin light
On the computer alright a producer alright
I produced this song
So you know who you are you know you were wrong
No I was not in that porn "On Golden Blonde"
Got it goin on more James Bond than Sean John
Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes
And I Love Ferris Bueller like tchhickachickkaa

[Chorus]
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it

[Verse 2]
Damn ya you're enamored I'm a slam ya
Hotter than your can down in Alabama
Where's my camera I need a Kodak moment
Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer
Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam
Slaughter a man on the microphone
Pardon me ma'am was that part of a man
Or your son I just whipped on the mic and sent home
Big quick shit New York- Stockholm
Kike and a Wop Wipin a cock
Walkin the block drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
I get that a lot yeah stop take stock
Shhh let me show you what I got
Made up my mind- like made it up I imagined it
I don't got a mind I abandoned it in a cabinet
So I could be a candidate for writin a few hits
Walkin a few pits and cashin in on that shit

[Chorus]
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it

[Verse 3]
I put out my first tape in '94 if you got one, I'll buy it
I don't got one no more it was called Mitch Better get my Bunny
That shit was shitty but funny
I admit it was dumb but I did it with no money
In 9-5 my first CD called Strictly Platinum
But it didn't go Platinum it went back to them
And instead of waitin for someone to put me on
I started a label ran it 'til the money was gone
Then came along, then was gone
Money money money, don't try to make it with your songs
But like Salt 'n Pepa in El Segundo we push it along (Push it!)
And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP
So I got egg beaters threw em back at the backpacks on 6th Ave. passin me
At the Bagel Buffet planted a bomb next to Grays
And when the records rained I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in LA
It's all okay 'cause when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record
I renamed it 'Pharoahe Monch featuring Chubby Checker'
Ha ha mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar
Shit is deep