I’m auditioning for Charles Bronson’s part in Death of a Salesman.nKnow what I’m sayin’?nI’m takin’ it over.nGotta give him a big rest in peace, though, right?nIn fact, this song’s dedicated to him.nnFirst of all, fuck BushnThat’s all, that’s the end of itnSecond, give it up to RSE for hookin’ up a kidnI got the two best, the newest, plus the truestnDoomtree, Rhymesayers Entertainmentn[You know the name!]nReppin’ quality control from your burrows to your bordersnDroppin’ hack emcees off of balconies like Tony Rocky HorrornThe baby danglin’nWords hanglin’ nHottest masturbatin' off the back of the neck of my soldiers' rhyme andnP.O., you know the dirty one disturbing categoriesnThe matador in black, killin' bullshit allegoriesnProvide the hurt, these other beastly storing stories make em'nnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnI spray terms like throw-ups, nI'm 'bout to spit a feelin'nCuz me and Turbo Nemesis are soon to be arthritic villainsnStill instillin' hatred,nLaced with manifesto moralsnAnd our back beat's to beat your heart beat off beatnLet's gonnExcuse menJust turn it on, and leave it runnin'nNation under the gun andnNothin' linin' our pocketsnWe frontin' like Cool RunningsnSomethin' so simple spokennWe wait, but nothin's comin'nChrome in our fingertips, they eat shit, like faulty plumbin'nJust games for days, busy bees makin' our honeynAnd skee ball tickets still on count, it's real moneynnIt's somethin' so ridiculous,nFunny, so fuckin' sick of this,nConsistent lack of vision from children claimin' they’re listenin'nnStill I'm sittin' skits and laughin' while they’re all missin' thisnThere's still songs about bitches, from 9/11 witnessesnSo here I am in the Middle WestnThe heart land mo' fuckanSippin' whole milk mo' fuckanOur nights are colder, right?nMinnesota nights, but our frost-bitten fistsnFor the smile stings twice so,nFight or flightnWho gives a damn anyways?nDoesn’t make a fuckin’ difference in these apathetic daysnnJust lean back, and relax, and tell 'emnnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnWe don't dance, we just pull up our pants, and then we,nnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnWhat, you want something like a cake? Want a Guinness or somethin'?nnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnSomethin' so ridiculous,nFunny, so fuckin' sick of this,nConsistent lack of vision from children claimin' they’re listenin'nnYou look sick, homie eat a gunnI'ma eat a gunnThat’s an allegorynI look tirednIt's probably the insomnianI sleep like Tyler DurdannStickin’ feathers in your ass does not make you a chickennnHoller if you hit the ground runnin'nA fool among the scholarsnBumpin' somethin' about clubs, bubs, and hubsnI got a message in a bottlenWritten in gas and oilnSigned with a rag and a matchnHere, catch!nSlap to rebel yellnThe rebels fell, embedded in bricknAin't no fuckin' marble memorialnFor pissed off kids waitin' for desperate shicksnLike Bronson, ain't got enough to flip his face to vigilance againnOnce it has been, the fifth amendsnBarely our friends, who think about what's up with Jen & BennOnce it has beenn[Get the fuck outta here!]nLet's get outnnJust lean back, and relax, and tell 'emnnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnPut the mo’ fuckin’ fresca downnnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnGet upnGet outnGet upnAnd get shot deadnnSomethin' so ridiculous,nFunny, so fuckin' sick of this,nConsistent lack of vision from children claimin' they listenin'nnDammit!nJoe, you like fresca?nYou’re fired.nIan, you not gettin’…nYou’re fired, too