Who Writes Your
[Verse One]
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 Q-Tip
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
[Whispered Hook Repeat 2x]
Please don't ask me who writes my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
[Verse Two]
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 ' Pepa in El Segundo we push it along (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