Let he who is without sin cast the first stone
After you who's last, it's Doom, he's the worst known
That'll have your boom blown or even thirst bone
Rock it to a worst clone, just don't curse the throne
Own his own microphone, bring it everywhere he go
So he can bring it to you live in stere-ere-o
Pan it, can't understand it, ban it
The underhanded ranted, planned it and left him stranded
The best, any who profess will be remanded
Yes sir, request permission to be candid? Granted
I don't think we can handle a style so rancid
They flipped it like Madlib, did a old jazz standardDon't mind me, I wrote this rhyme lightly
Off of two or three Heines, and boy was they fine, G
One Black, One Spanish, One Chinese
It keeps the woody shiny year round like a pine tree
Don't sign me I'm about to get a mil without em
Grab him off the shelf, he's the villain, and what about him
So and he's a jerk and you don't know him
Mad how he expand work but won't show 'em
Poor guys, what a sight for old, sore four-eyes
Now hook me with two apple pies and a small fries
All rise, so far art as a Rupple
So raw break it down and make quadruple
It's crucial, you could see it in his pupil
And this time when he get it he'll waste it on somethin' useful
Like getting juiced off a deuce-deuce of cokey
Keep it low key, known to pull a okey-dokey
Silly Goose, Doom is too jokey
Damn he could really use a room or a whole key
Egads, he got enough styles to start three fads
True dat, she bad, I wonder do she come with kneepads
What a call, what a real butterball
Either I get a strike or strike out, gutterball
Rock it like gear for the fall
With knives inside pockets, prepare for the brawl
Yeah y'all you could say its an earful
Beware, do not touch mic, be careful
And just like he said, I coulda told ya
MF, the holder of a boulder, Money Folder
It ain't funny nigga
Money Folder
Songwriters
OTIS JACKSON, DANIEL DUMILE THOMPSONPublished by
Lyrics © Peermusic Publishing, Universal Music Publishing Group