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Princess Superstar
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Who Writes Your
Lyricist:Kirschner Concetta Suzanne
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 whit 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 swinging 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 going on, more James Bond than Sean John Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes And I Love Ferris Bueller like tchhickachickkaa
Please, don't ask me who writes my lyrics I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it Don't ask me who writes my lyrics I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it
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 Wiping a cock Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com Walking the block drop ya jaw to jock to your sock I get that a lot, yeah, oh stop take stock Shh, 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 writing a few hits Walking a few pits and cashing in on that shit (Please, don't ask me who writes my lyrics)
I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it Don't ask me who writes my lyrics, uh uh
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 waiting 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 'n 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. passing 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 L.A. It's all okay 'cause when Fat Beats Still wouldn't distribute my record
I renamed it, Pharaoh Monch Featuring Chubby Checker Mic wrecker, don't sleep Princess Superstar, the shit's deep
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