I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so you all know;
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko.
You’re always trying to come off like you’re hard, son,
but you start from square one, you’re poor like a bum.
I don’t want to upset you, but I know that I do
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true.
You can’t rhyme, you can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you don’t believe in what you say and it’s not making dents.
I put on my glasses, I studied your track
and I filed it in the dumpster — definition of wack.
You’re so high, G; you’re played out, see?
And you get nowhere fast fueled on your hypocracy.
You think you’d look as good as I do?
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sellout suckers, they lie to themselves every day:
you say you’re from Compton but never been to L.A.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself;
you’re a Balsa wood glider trying to battle the Stealth.
Don’t push it too far, ‘cause you’re out of your league —
you’re a rodent Roger Ramjet and I got your ass treed.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out
because I’ll meatgrind you, pork boy, ‘cause I got the clout.
Now I’ve got your attention, I see your ears are cockin’,
like the Sugar Hill Gang I don’t stop the rockin’ to the
tick tock I don’t pack a glock because my tongue’s a lethal weapon
I can kill when I rock.
But why add another MC to the list of my killings
when I’d rather reform you to the art if you’re willing.
I could loose your caboose from the rest of the pack
or put some sense in your skull with a backhanded smack.
I don’t say I’m from the Ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there;
you’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp;
mack dady loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
You might have fooled yourself that your fans believe you.
Fool yourself again when they wise up and leave you.
When the circus is in town I might go see you clowns
while they’re hammering the lids of their own coffins down.
Pay a lot of money to make people believe,
but that falls flat, New Jack, against the Trick up my sleeve.
A scandal vandal man with my hands — they’re slammin’
and your rinkety-dinkety jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble to the fresh guitar licks,
but your track couldn’t hack it, even with a remix.
You’re jealous of my posse ‘cause they’re people I trust
but your records don’t bust it . . . they only go bust!
I said I’m the meatgrinder, I’ll grind you like meat
I see fear in your eyes because you’re smelling defeat.
Get funky from my feet to the birds and the bees,
from the buildings and trees to the rivers and seas.
Swaying back and forth like a hypnotized cobra,
one snap of my fingers and your dream state’s over.
I never really mind when the weaklings, they dis me.
I never seem to care that your girl wants to kiss me.
But keep it all in check, man, like you know you should —
now go bandage your ego, tramp . . . it’s all good.
I got the hip hop flavor, bouncing around to the beat;
you see I’m never quite finished, grab yourself a seat.
Get a little bit of popcorn get yourself a soda.
You’re a wannabe Jedi, and I’m like Yoda.
If you’re gonna get excited do us all a favor
shut your fuckin’ mouth and fall on your light saber.
Sometimes I think that I am wasting my time,
trying to teach a nincompoop like you how to rhyme.
But I’m a poet and a prankster, the airwaves gangster.
I got the flying vocal guillotine and you can call me master.
Now I’m on line and I’ll get you in trouble.
Like Fred Flintstone you’re always fooled by Barney Rubble.
You’ve got monetary clout and you think you know what to say
but I grind meat like you for a living each day.
Like a chicken you’re plucked and you’re shit out of luck
feeling like three pounds of fat ground chuck.
Of course you’re right and I’m an amature wrong
but I prefer not to fall like a boulder, King Kong.
I’m more like Godzilla with his nuclear breath:
I melt every motherfuck I put to the test.
I couldn’t give a damn about the way you dance;
some aerobics instructor in circus tent pants.
I got the kick drum humming from my MTX eights.
Golden sun is gleaming from my California license plates.
Sitting back sunny from the south, San Diego,
sculpting rhymes from my my mind as if it was Play-Dough.
Then I get the call when my Bat-Phone rings;
the room’s illuminated by the searchlight with wings.
The President’s on the line “the madman’s escaped!
He’s taking people’s money, do whatever it takes!”
So I eat a bowl of Wheaties ‘cause I’m coming to find ya,
‘cause I’m the one and only motherfucking meatgrinder.
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