Platinum Plus

Hook:

One million, two million, three million souls

Four million, five million, six million souls

Seven million, eight million souls, nine million souls

Ten we gotta win em

Let's get, let's go

Verse 1:

Want some bonafide answers to those questions you got?

Wanna know the cure to AIDS, and why your homie got shot?

Wanna know why you sin, and how you gon' stop?

Why they gotta shake dance?

Why yo' block still hot?

Why they take what you got, insteada' getting they own?

Little girls grow up fast, and they act so grown?

Little boys having boys from the seeds they sown

Why they blowin' up spots, when the madness gon' stop?

Well… we got the answers for the strip-tease dancers

For the 10 years olds waiting for the cures to the cancers

It's in The Good Book, come on, get a good look

Isaiah 53:5, for us stripes He took

So you're healed now, injection you can feel now

Flow it through your system, breath out- breath in now

It's The Medicine, no Tylenol, Excedrin

The Word got the cure y'all, ain't nothing better than

Real hip-hop, solid on the Rock

Spittin' truth to the youth, J.C non-stop

We lace the kick and the bass something sweet, wanna taste?

The Medicine, The Veteran

No time to waste, let Him in

Hook (repeat)

Verse 2:

Ric FLO got flow

Get it, I spit clean

Lyrically call me your Mr. Listerine

30-something now, been spitting since 16

Subtract 3 from that, my raps were on the scene.

Industry broken it needs fixing

Wrong song playing time for re-mixing

Scr scr scratching the slackness

With the wack vaccine

Christ is the finish line, and I'm on that track team

I'm tired of these rappers and their wack lyrical acting

5'8" I run through still doing the Shaq thing.

You hear the crowd reacting?

Re-running things like millennium what's happening.

Some a y'all amazed by this Jesus craze

Because we Fonzerelli cool, having happy days

HEY HEY HEY

I'm phat when I spit

Without a mush mouth, I bust out a hit when I get- Funky

Because it got's to be a James Brown, Parliament, Bush Cassidy

raise the dead, head banger.

Off the hanger, off the charts, off the chain,

Off the hook, off the block, off the brain.

Some a y'all sayin- "he ain't freestylin' this thing."

Why not, my flow comes straight from the King

Blaooww

Gospel- far from soft

PS in the lions dens popping the top off

For the

Hook (repeat)