[Intro: Del the Funky Homosapien]
Man let me get some shit up off my chest
You know stress is the number one killer of black men
So Imma take off my coat so I can get up outta here
With a fresh coat of paint ya dig?
Some body work, it's gon' be like
I just came out the auto detail shop
That's right, ride out, leave all this bird shit for the bird brains
I know you guys know the feeling cuz
It's funky out here right about now for real homie
Just was five murders out here in Oakland over the weekend
In a 24 hour period

[Verse 1: Del the Funky Homosapien]
Hey, I'm sick of n***as, I'm sick of coons
I'm sick of tunes, half-written every rap they have is bitten
Sick of complaints, sick of movements that don't be moving
Another name for [?] it's an illusion
Sick of hoes shamming they hoe programming
Via emotional warfare, acquisition through sex
Sick of checking broads that be snitching to get you vexed
Sick of painstakingly taking the night out of a twist
Sick of holding back on n***as
I don't even know how I resist
Sick of bourgeois politics
Sick of trying to keep up with where all my dollars went
Sick in the head, I'm sick of all of this
But I ain't calling it quits
I just spit a sick flow that clip close
Like a sickle through a fields of weeds
You feel you're elite? You is weak
Don't even know that the root is the street
And you other rappers [?] stupid to me
With the same con and misinformed fans
Wanna place the blame on everybody eatin'
Money ain't the root of evil fool you need it
It's just power and the individual
And how he choose to treat it
[Hook: Tame One]
Life sucks, reality blows, responsibility is killin' me
All I wanna to do is rock and do shows
A lotta hoes think they shit don't stink
But as long as [?] drinking this pink, we gon' link (x2)

[Verse 2: Tame One]
How is you not knowin' about my spot blowin'
You critics can get the dick like my button fly popped open
I'm hopin' you choke faggot and your man be next, gay
Feeling some kind of way without a gag reflex, hey!
Follow up and swallow everything I got you to taste
I'm high as you are, fubar like the bottle was laced
I'm going in like it's a curfew to murk you and half your circle
All I want is a blunt and a bag of purple
Cuz when I lift the piff to my lips to take a hit
It's like fuck you as I cause ruffles like the potato chip
It's the way I say my shit, setting me apart from others
No feelings, I get biz, cold chillin' like Warner Brothers
So what part of the game is this?
This ain't a rap this a tape to diss, in fact you's a gansta bitch
You's a bag with a rag needing a pad, cuz of your flow
That bullshit'll just get you snuck at the show
You ain't been felt since the balls under your pop spilt
Not built for that shit, we can both spit but I killed that shit
And I feel this shit, I dealt with it, now you felt it, shit
[Hook]