Bro, don’t shoot, he’ll explain the rest
No 21-gun salute could make ’em as def
He blew the whistle, say it ain’t so ref
Hating the taste of his own breath, he faked his own death

Nothing so deep, as bedrock, crust to crust
Publishing money creeping up, long as Busta Bus
Killed for his catalog, before going dust to dust
Billed dead as analog, sorry for throwing such a fuss

He transitioned, from artist, to divine mist
Lotta lines writ, so you gotta read the fine print
No proof of death, not nobody, or no pine bin
No body switch, autopsy, or hearse to climb in

The media, took the story, and ran with it
Thirty years to the morning, that De La Soul and Dan did it
Day of the mask ended, then he Osama’d it
Stacking false flag plots and plats from the damn stickses

Jan. 1st, learned the press as if in a dream
The Fam earning times ten, like it wasn’t a thing
This clock’s running, bout that quarterly and lovely
Disc jocks spun his tunes, to loudpack and bubbly

Wouldn’t you, as a gazillionaire introvert
get tired of looking at all these billionaires into pervs?
He’s can’t stand it, like vaxxed pilots looking for work
Landing like a jerk, if he plants foot outside his turf

Better stick it to the bat cave
Stashed full of snacks, security cams and ashtrays
Smashing food, gagging on news and what the man’s saying
Don’t believe the hype, Public Enemy mansplained

Keeping up with the Joneses, was getting old
Steering clear of political omens, was a given tho
Drinking cold beer, with no pictures, of chickish bros
Their trans-action was denied, there’s the road, hit it ho

As if she was a damsel
Too late, your late great grand daddy’s already been cancelled
His estate got his interest at heart to handle
Operation Dick Cheney, codeword: GET MY MANS THRU

Take the damn offer, he brought a lot of fish, but
Wade in the water, with a lotta hippopotamus
They’ll drink to you, dancing with the octopus
Look past the ink, transparency means apocalypse

You asked for a bone so, he brought you this
Don’t give a fuck, how it tastes tho, he bout da dip
Winters coming, stock up bro, you know, for all the kids
Villain never tell on his own, or where the prophet is