All I can do is rap. I can only rhyme, I can't find Afghanistan on a map. Can't change a tire, can't do my taxes, 'cause I ruined all my synapses (uh huh). All I'm good at is spittin' flames, it's true. I don't know how to dress, I'm obsessed with spittin' in Spanglish. Lo siento, no sé, how to fix it or make shit, but I'll kick that insane, Cypress Hill in the brain shit. Put me on the board, I'll wear my nice shirt, climb up on the table sayin' that I'm a minah bird (caaaaw). I'm absurd, but I do like writin' words. Just don't expect me to not eat ecstasy and then drive to work. Don't know how to budget, I just throw it, like fuck it, make it rain on these hos, but I could flow without cussin'. Make it to the pros without knowin' nuttin', like I'm broken, door closed and my motor runnin'. My credit is fair to poor, I can't even make my bed, but I use my pen to prepare for war. Rap till I'm dead and I'm headed to the source, end up wrapped up in a Porsche.