” I see some niggas trippin’ cause we got a cypher now…
It opened up the doors, and of course, we’re making our way in.
Getting the people so hyper now, from the way we spittin our lyrics.
We do it fast AND it makes sense. Nigga’s hate it, so they spite us now.
They hate the fact we do it, Influencing losers to get with their movement.
They doing some shit we don’t allow, but its cool because we came to kill you niggas,
let the slaughter recommence. My name is Charlie… Muscle!
Here from Sacramento, a rebel destroying the microphone when I touch it.
A 91sicko that’s stuck in the middle of giving you riddles and being the person you don’t wanna fuck with.
Label me a narcotic, my side effects include sparking a mood and following with a pumped fist.
The downside… there isn’t a downside. Buckle up and enjoy the shit that you feel.
This is good music. So while you noddin your head and bitin your nails, yo friend sayin ‘Yo, He can gas huh?’ Change your nickname to Brand New Buick, cause you sittin on a lot, goin no where, gettin gassed up.
A step ahead of you niggas. An individual using these syllables to make a mothafuckin beat cry.
Your heat’s dry, my nigga, and we tired of seeing your facades. You more pussy than feline.
I busted your bubble. Shut your shit down so you have no rebuttal.
Got you niggas boxed in like crossword puzzles. You’re awkward and supple,
more cushion than the teddy bear representing Snuggle, now BREATHE……
And take a minute to accumulate the devastation that I’m placing on the human race.
No budget alive, so what the fuck’s a minimum wage? No fuckin disguise, so everybody seeing my face.
It’s nothing to hide. I’m broke, I ain’t makin no cake. I can barely book a show, but here I am on the stage.
I’m takin picture’s so I remember the look on your face.
Because you hatin asses gonna take a fraction of my verse and decorate it like a christmas tree.
I’ll deliver the gifts, that let you know that I’m sick. The ebola virus ain’t got shit on me. LET’S GO!”