[38 seconds of instrumental to open]
We, flavor the muzak, chop this, Screw that
Take you to church in a verse and you move back
Holy Ghost from the lonely coast, pick humility
Facin critics cold fronts, blockin out humidity
We own rap - fo' sho' it's cognac, I twist yo' dome back
Our tracks seem to be nappy - but you can't comb that
Call it El Natural sound of soul
You ain't seen these darts and how fast they flown
From, 'tween these parts and the ones near known
My slang bang with a twang and hang on earlobes
You hear how daddy how there's Caddies with no steering column on 'em
With enough lines to dry all the clothes that you own
And since when did the South get pinned in a drought
Not never been clever since big Timbs been about
Reachin whatever levels that are suspended in doubt
That we as bad as yo' kids when this mic's to our mouth
I hear 'em talkin 'bout Southern folks can't rhyme
Some of y'all must be out your God damned mind
Yeah, it's about that time, we got that shine
Cause niggaz been about them lines
Since when? E'ry since a "Pocket Full of Stones"
Ridin dirty in a Chevy sittin heavy on chrome
Ever since Goodie Mo' had +Food+ for +Soul+
And them dirty red dawgs done hit the do'
Y'all ain't ready for that shit yet
But be on the lookout for Cunninlynguists next album
"A Piece of Strange"
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