stream this song | open this song in your browser | back to album page | back to homepage My Two Cents Track 3 from "I.P.O.P.I.F." by proGrammar As the population increases, popular speech turns to feces. Intelligence decreases and humanity straight ceases. The argument for continuation starts to sound specious. Polices and politicians revel in hand greases. My grevious, aggregious complaints are like paint: old and chipping. Stupid motherfuckers ask "Why you tripping?" Man, if you can't see... Feel I have to stop. Continue to win you over? My patience's bout to pop! "My duty to change you," is strange to sensibility. We all have the power, man, if you can't see by now... Technology doubling every seventy days by 2020. Kinda funny, it's happening much too fast for us to grasp. We lost our grip ago, have not yet realized we've tripped. Collective unconscious concussion; scrapey nosey, bleedy lip. Saturating concrete with our hemoglobin drip. Destruction or salvation very near; we're just a blip (x3) Yo, yo! My two cents is ejected from my pocket like co-pilots of a rocket. It's hard to fucking stop it once I drop it in the form of cassette. My homies say "bet." Spread the shit like Ebola. I toil and slave to save my brain from atrophy, decrepency. Discrepencies were known to make the difference. Yo, fuck that! Let's talk straight. No time for fakes. The universal oven has passed bake, and it's on straight to broil. Yo, I foil the spoil with my homies, no others. How the fuck would I make it without the aid of my brothers?. Fucking rhetorical. Allegorical alligators snatching ducks for snacks out the water. Mind power like Vader. Gatorade is known to kill mad cilia. I get my filla your silly ass, and then I'm spilling ya remainder guts across a worn oak table. Your distended rep is just a fable misleading the people into ______ or some other equal evil. Green greed's the death of a sequel. My speak will pit itself against your freak rhymes. We'll see who penetrates through the chaff in unique times. Meditated leader of a bomb-ass genre while your ass gets dropped like a moth-eaten bomber out the closet of a gear-head. I'm near fed with malicious opportunists misleading the ill-bred. I strive for integrity; don't always make it, but I never half-bake my Baked Alaska then fake it. stream this song | open this song in your browser | back to album page | back to homepage

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