It's the resurgence of the happy black rappers   But now African medallions are handicap placards   And we're alphabetized in the modernized retro   And my press photos are wallet-size   My rent's low   Why don't you shape me   I'm malleable fleshy putty   In a salad bowl with dill dressing   In simulated urban field testing   Dressing thuggy   Accompanied by a sexy bunny   Straight out of a burlesque show   She'll sever the ring finger of the lead singer   And stir a fresh bowl   Of the bitch's brew with bee stingers   But Leimert's fresh though   It's home of the black speed-reader   Perplexed our blurbs stretch   To suggest that I'm spacy   But the bird nest is low   Which means I'm commonplace   To the point we travel the country in wooden spaceships   On the phone cursing at the booking agents   I wield words and I pilfer the country with the underground's who's who   But I feel like I've been sodomized with a billiard's pool cue      I am the first black astronaut   To walk the bare moon   From my air balloon   Pound my beliefs into the desired shape   Then put them sound asleep in a fireplace      It's the return of the unpopular dope rappers   Who retreat to holes in the sky   Climbing up rope ladders   And will sell you a silver disc soaked in laughter   Because you've been brainwashed   Out of your ears leaks soap lather   Why don't you deify me   I'm Buckaroo Bonsai   I don't know what to do   I'm the wrong guy   I touch crews like Krush Groove on DVD   And I got my start doing songs with CVE   But now you're like:   Chilling Villain who? Project what?   Persona non grata   No wristband for the popsicle stick man   He's a wad of hot lava   Drip crayon on your clipped glands   Won't squander top dollar   Twists strands to enrich fans   But there's not a lot of offers   They give grands to kitsch bands   I water lawns   For the ADD D&D role players   And we got along   So we formed a commonwealth   And you hear me through random sightings and file sharing   And you tell me that songwriting's like childbearing   No it's not   It's self-indulgence   Elfin culprits watch their egos melt in charcoal pits      Oh my   Sorry I left my acceptance speech   In the back of the private car   And I rewrote the Hollywood ending   Fluxed the motion picture screen   Made it so the black guy doesn't die by the opening scene      It's the decline of the cathartic writer   And the label's who couldn't market a Lifer   I've been outsold and my style's old and lame   I'll spark a lighter to the carpet fiber   Because I'm not a household name   I'm a tax write-off   I signed a deal with no exit clause   My label's like Mrs. Santa Claus during menopause   So I'm banging on padded walls   Because I'm trying to make hits   But I keep hitting pop flies   I don't eat out anymore   I thaw out chicken pot pies   But I used to be on the list of the top five   Fresh hip-hop guys