Tolerance Level - Non Prophets

To the best of my knowledge

I guess that I’m fresh and -- (yo, hold up, hold up)

Yo Joe Beats, what’s the purpose of you stoppin' me?

(I don’t know man I want you to kick the raps

You were kickin' a long time ago, not this emo shit)

Aight, aight

I was getting props when I first started to flow

Makin' this music wrecking shop like a retarded vocational student

Didn’t know it at the time, that the shit made me look stupid

Rockin' pro-black rhymes over «The Devil Made Me Do It»

I never gave two shits bout rockin' new kicks

I ain’t the type to wear something just cause the shoe fits

I make moves quick, to your head feet first

I dig women who got more to get offa their chests than wet T-shirts

Rep the east turf, I rip the west side

I’d rather eat dirt than ingest pride, my sixth sense shines

Less wack than Mos Def’s pitiful incense vibe

You couldn’t ghostwrite if your invisible ink pen died!

Now kick fresh rhymes, and think next time

Before you’re paid to be actin'

As an emcee I’m a character assassin

Paid to kill off all your made-for-TV rappin'

When the shit hits the fan, I’mma blame it on GG Allin

My tolerance level has peaked, and it’s time for heads to get flown

Just because I speak peace doesn’t mean I can’t throw no joints (I don’t know.)

Now I stopped to build a bridge during my agnostic pilgrimage

Lost my will to live, so I shot and killed some kids

I’m just kiddin', no I’m not

Into oral bestiality I’m just blowin' Spots

And I got more back than acne on the slap-happy-go-lucky types

Monday Night Football fanatics, asscrack addicts with thunder bites

Got more bodies on my mic than my pistol

I ain’t got a pistol but there’s bodies on my mic (bullshit, you do)

(It's true!) And Joe will kill you with the bullet prose

Throw a book of sample laws towards us, get left with loopholes

Take my advice: take an 8-mile hike

I’m down by law, like the back of the jacket on Cool as Ice

Who is nice?

Why’d you ask me?

For the last time, I’m nasty — like Nas was at halftime

You fuckin know it like I know that’s a rental car

Hey sucka poet, whoever ya are

MC, uh-uh, people don’t call you

Playin' catch-up with old reissues of Audio Two

Lots of artists got bitten, I’m not kiddin'

What more can I say?

(Bob Dylan)

You play the side of the stage like a broken mic stand

You ain’t enough of an emcee to be Jarobi’s hype man!

You yelled in double negatives, and couldn’t make no noise

Why is that?

Ask yourself, homeboy

Wanna battle me while sayin' writtens, it ain’t sane

You’re better off playing games of chicken with freight trains

I’m stickin' to the weight gain, while Dr. Atkins

Sticks his dietary cock into lots of my fat friends

Now download my manhood, memorize its measurements

Then lip-sync the circumference if the head doesn’t fit

You can use your Vulcan grip on my huge bulging dick

It’s the ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, UH

(What does it all mean?) (I don’t know!) (x8)