lirik lagu non prophets - tolerance level
to the best of my knowledge
i guess that i’m blessed and i’m holy (yo, hold up, hold up)
yo joe beats, what’s the purpose of you stoppin’ me?
(i don’t know man i want you to kick the raps
you were kickin’ a long time ago, not this emo sh-t)
aight, aight
i was getting props when i first started to flow
makin’ this music wrecking shop like a r-t-rded vocational student
didn’t know it at the time, that the sh-t made me look stupid
rockin’ pro-black rhymes, -oh but the- the devil made me do it
i never gave two sh-ts bout rockin new kicks
i ain’t the type to wear something just cause the shoe fits
i make moves quick, till you head feet first
i dig women who got more to get offa their chests than wet t-shirts
rent the east herb, permit the west side
i’d rather eat dirt than ingest pride, my sixth sense shines
less wack than mos def’s pitiful incense vibe
you couldn’t ghostwrite if your invisible ink pen died!
now kick fresh rhymes, and think next time
before you’re paid to react and as an emcee i’m a character -ss-ssin
paid to kill off all your made-for-tv rappin’
when the sh-t hits the fan, i’m a blame it on gg allin
my tolerance level has peaked, and it’s time for heads to get thrown
just because i speak peace doesn’t mean i can’t throw no -jaunts- (i don’t know.)
now i stopped to build a bridge during my agnostic pilgrimage
lost my will to live so i shot and killed some kids
i’m just kiddin’, no i’m not
-into- oral b-st–lity i’m just blowin’ spots
and i got more back than acne, underside happy-go-lucky types
monday night football fanatics, -sscrack addicts with thunder bites
got more bodies on my mic than my pistol
i ain’t got a pistol but there’s bodies on my mic (bullsh-t, you)
(it’s true!) and joe will kill you with the bullet blows
throw a book of sample laws towards us, get left with loopholes
take my advice: take an 8-mile hike
i’m down by law, like the back of the jacket on cool as ice
who is nice? why’d you ask me?
for the last time, i’m nasty – like nas was at halftime
you f-ckin know it like i know that’s a rental car
hey sucka poet, whoever ya are
mc, uh-uh, people don’t call you
playin’ catch-up with every rerelease of audio two
lots of emcees got bitten, i’m not kiddin’
what more can i say? (bob dylan)
you played the side of the stage like a broken mic stand
you ain’t enough of an emcee to be jarobi’s hype man!
you yelled in double negatives, and couldn’t make no noise!
why is that? ask yourself, homeboy
wanna battle me while -saying- writtens, it ain’t sane
better off playing games of chicken with freight trains
i’m stickin to the weight gain, while dr. atkins
sticks his dietary -c-ck into- to lots of my fat friends
now download my manhood! memorize it’s measurements
and lip sync the circ-mference if the head doesn’t fit
you can use your vulcan grip, on my huge -bulging- d-ck
it’s the ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, ultimate, uh
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