Trigga finga

Something, something, something plus a little something else.../

& a "Aye! Yeah! whoop!" If it really even helps/

Dang, I left my Dark Knight suit but I brought the belt/

*Smoke bomb* I might switch the flow once I hear the bells/

Oh, ok, ok/

Let's build—all whey always/

You want that hokey-pokey?/

Then homie go play Rozay!/

Yep I'm all in yo' face/

On that Oil of Olay/

Still when I stroll in the place/

They say "Olé! Olé!"/

Look, y'all write dumb raps/

I write dumb raps.../

Like, a lot??... Heavyweight; ton raps/

Deep focus, I could balance on my thumb...on a thumbtack/

And make my words stay in your mouth like a tongue tat/

Huddle, "hut, hut" that/

My tongue is a running back with a bomb/

Don't run in front of that—hit the Quan/

What have y'all done with rap?! Took the fun in rap/

Put a gun in rap, put the dumb in rap/

Dun, I'm done with rap, till I'm clutching rap in a palm/

The giver! Make 'em shiver till they quiver to the liver like a trigga finga/


In this rap nation, I'm the presidenté/

I cook wack emcees just right, al dente/

Master of the art, let's play/

& I guarantee that anyone you send say "Black's the true sensei!"/

But that's old news to those who know Jewelz/

No booze, nude beaus, still he gets no boos/

True! I bruise rude crude dudes crews, leave no clues/

Teach 'em 'bout defeat (da feet) like you lose with no shoes/

Yo look at shortee over there ("Where?"), the way she shake it make you just can't stand her/

When she tell you "No"/

You want to see her drop it low/

Not just her hips but her standards/

It's not a trick, son!/

Every single woman ain't a vixen/

It's the one you think sprung that's kingdom/

She'll spit some wisdom that make you King Dumbs turn and do a quick run/

Like a trigga finga/


The black cat is back on a rap attack! I track you macks/

I got a map with tacks attached! It's either that or I'd tax you catz/

And charge you by the minute like taxi cabs while you trapped in the back with laughing gas/

The Black don't flash gats yet when I blast raps/ 

These rappers quack, quack and duck like Aflac/ 


The rap rats collapse and dash fast/

—hit the mat—

And tap, tap, arm-bar (arm: bar), clack-clack/

No chrome! My prose and poems close old holes in the ozone/

You've now been exposed to the flows of a hobo/

Who was strung out and thrown low/

Like Joey Fatone tone, but arose like a yoyo/

Your flow ok, mine KO though/

Like you got kicked in the nose bone then hit with the low-blow/

It was filmed with a GoPro/

They gung-ho till I make 'em run home/

Like a trigga finga