my popularity's on the rise, my self-image is somewhat sinking.
my heads expanding in size but my stomach's shrinking.
it all evens out in the end, that's what i'm thinking,
sing the cash register raps, ch-ching ching, greenbacks bring the bling bling.
nah nah, i may stay home,
rubbed out the "ring ring, ha ha, hey hey," poem,
while my answering machine's screening calls, feeling safe and alone.
i want change in your message not the coin return of a payphone.
my boys are concerned that my brain's blown,
voices get turned away annoyed with what they say. if it's a gay tone,
and they're like "hey, ho!" i'm all like "hey yo..."
few remain prone to spray straight shots with blood stained glocks, in a face of stone
to melt your ice grill, it might spill and break ya bone,
thugs-in-harmony cd plus any tapes ya own.
replace the thrown with some non-prophets drop bass, hooo.
sage is know to pull your card kid so chill,
i mess up plans like robbers with no skill.
my only knowledge is the holy father's so thrilled
that you don't know still what god is making martyrs out of molehills.
now if your soul is fulfilled, hold your dills,
and realize you're never satisfied 'til after you die from overkill.
i'm from placebo-ville, where we know the drill,
obscene is so ill but i wait for the nurse to leave so i can throw the pill.
i am not sick!, demeneted, or listed as twisted, bitch,
what's up with this kid?
some insisted that i'm interested in running from the facts whispered
in a mating call that get a busy signal from a number that's unlisted.
lumberjacks are gifted, when i swung the axe it slid
out of my grasp and injured this invalid, invalid.
toss-offs toss their cookies while tossing salads,
i ghost-write the most hype love song and let some whore sing the ballad.

chorus:
i'm a whore, a whore monger! with a platinum voice.
i'm a whore, a whore monger! 'cause i haven't a choice.

servin' up this 'ish 'cause ego-freaks need to eat excrament and flaunt rose pedals.
i breed hard rocks to impregnate stones and grow pebbles.
i throw kettles at pan-handlers and pot-smokers,
sell incest to sexually repressed stockbrokers.
i turn impotent pimps to sex slaves,
manifest them with radio activity from x-rays,
i bootleg their skeletons the next day.
son, you can sense my dark mood once the sky gets gray.
little kids are like "let's play!" alright then,
tell them to act like men then i'll fight them.
let 'em hit me first then be like "strike again!"
then it's my turn to see how far the limbs of little tykes bend.
i tied 'em up, with burlap rope. "word, that's dope."
manhandled the girl that lacked hope and her back broke.
she preferred crack cocain to heroin, needed heroin never again,
ladies and gentleman, ladies and gentleman...
i'm from a species of czars, i rule the deep seas and stars,
everything i do is important so i save my fecies in jars.
and what i eat seems bizzare, i deep-freeze and thaw
emcees who ain't down by the gravities of law.
now these analogies ain't raw,
but when you secretly serve this well-done, ya'll then become casualties of war.
she called me francis allah and i was flattered,
'cause i ghost-wrote the most dope love sonnet, that dumb harlet sung the ballad.

chorus:
i'm a whore, a whore monger! with a platinum voice.
i'm a whore, a whore monger! 'cause i haven't a choice.

and if your snatch isn't moist, just sing along, c'mon!