Who Writes Your lyrics

I`m the flyest MC the finest MC the nicest MC oh that`s boring see
There`s another MPC so why you think most hip-hop sounds the same except for me?
Cryptic kick shit from the crypt sadistic lick hits with wit I`m quick
Rip crickets in a wicket I`m plain wicked thick in the rig wearing kid lipstick
I wreck shit on the next shit spit it in ya ear bit like a Qtip
Big silly bitch wickedy witch lickety split in a sitch no dick but talk big carry a big stick
So I`m a girl, yeah I`m white and I write all night with a bare swingin light
On the computer alright a producer alright
I produced this song- so you know who you are you know you were wrong
No I was not in that porn On Golden Blonde got it goin on more James Bond than Sean John
Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes and I Love Ferris Bueller like tchhickachickkaa
Please don`t ask me who writes my lyrics
I`ll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
Don`t ask me who writes my lyrics
Damn ya you`re enamored I`m a slam ya hotter than your can down in Alabama
Where`s my camera I need a Kodak moment of the moment I made you feel like Hammer
Son of Sam? I`m the daughter of Sam, slaughter a man on the microphone
Pardon me ma`am was that part of a man or your son I just whipped on the mic and sent home
Big quick shit New York- Stockholm
Kike and a Wop Wipin a cock walkin the block drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
I get that a lot yeah stop take stock shhh let me show you what I got
Made up my mind- like made it up I imagined it-I don`t got a mind I abandoned it in a cabinet
So I could be a candidate for writin a few hits walkin a few pits and cashin in on that shit
I put out my first tape in `94 if you got one, I`ll buy it
I don`t got one no more it was called Mitch Better get my Bunny
That shit was shitty but funny I admit it was dumb but I did it with no money
In 9-5 my first CD called Strictly Platinum but it didn`t go Platinum it went back to them
And instead of waitin for someone to put me on
I started a label ran it `til the money was gone, then came along, then was gone,
Money money money, don`t try to make it with your songs
But like Salt `n Pepa in El Segundo we push it a long (Push it!)
And then Fat Beats wouldn`t take my last LP
So I got egg beaters threw em back at the backpacks on 6th Ave. passin me
At the Bagel Buffet planted a bomb next to Grays
And when the records rained I sold `em back for double to Fat Beats in LA
It`s all OK cuz when Fat Beats still wouldn`t distribute my record
I renamed it-Pharoah Monch featuring Chubby Checker
Ha ha mic wrecker don`t sleep, Princess Superstar ? The shit is deep


[Thanks to sk8shoe_182@excite.com for these lyrics]