Lupe Back

Yield, to the forces of darkness

I bring you the torches of our shit

Reinforced with hardness of Wolverine's

Arms with the harshness and overall sharpness

Now how far do the arms get?

My nigga, from the stars to the starfish

From the baby to the bomb

It's a whole lot of light and a whole lot of armlift

My arms long, but I'm lawless

A strong arm, I can lift up all this

You gon' have to build a bigger farm for us

To keep them wolves out of Old MacDonald barn, bitch

Yeah, Team Jacob

We're long armed, put my arms on a lear

Everytime I put my hands in the air

Watch the throne as I dance in the chair

Throw my crown in the crowd, hope it lands on the heir

The weak niggas like to pass interfere

Spend a lot of lint over jams in the year

That act like the man up in here

That don't count when your only real fan is a mirror

That's subliminal to any nigga that he feel he is too

But you don't stand a chance, playa

I am there, Chi-Town, fan of the Bears

Love where they dance in the square

Yeah, Yankees too, but only cause Granderson there

And now wears khaki pants on La Brea

We all friends, why your man lookin' scared?

Turning whiter than Anderson hair

Came out the garage like he saw a phantom in there, huh

Oh shit alert, Louis clothes

Callin women bitches, Louboutin and Gucci shows

Well, I guess there goes my Louis shows

More o shit, if your role model's a movie role

And if you live your life like it's a studio

Talkin' to us like we mics, a bunch of you ain't do befo'

Electric fences for a urinal

Also keep a toaster in my jacuzzi, yo

Shock-a-zulu, call me Wasalu II

Oh shit, man these record labels prostitute you

Strap them to sushi bars, and feed em lots of fugu

Catch a bad piece

You can stick that 360 between your asscheeks

Artists let's mobilize and unionize like the athletes

Radio is making our craft weak

Forced to repeat the same dumb shit that work

Only as hot as your last beat

And rappers, they relating to that last piece

Album never leave they desk if you don't got no B.D.S

Sacrifice your publishin', they said you really need a hook

And they ain't gon' pay you, said that you received a look

And what's stupid real, is what producers feel

Twenty placements or you stuck in that producer deal

And R&B chicks so get it the wildest

All they money goes to hairdressers and stylists

Gotta keep up with that image

Label lose they mind if they ever see a blemish

ProActiv impeals, airbrushers and trainers

Managers suggest you fuck a nigga to be famous, huh

But it's all entertainment

Wonder when Cobain blew out his brains, did he blame it?

And if those snakes in the industry helped him aim it

Started pressing up records before the bullet left the chamber

I fight evil, everyday I'm livin'

Rest in peace to men, women and the children

And middle fingers to the Pilgrims that killed 'em

Friend of the People, happy Thanksgiving