Luyện nghe bài hát Who Writes Your

(C. Kirschner)
Produced by Concetta Kirschner for Concetta (BMI). Additional Production by Curtis Curtis for The Vertical Corporation (BMI). Guitar by Pete Kohl. Bass by Walter Sipser

I'm the flyest MC the finest MC the nicest MC oh boring see
There's another MPC so why you think most hip-hop the same except for me?
Cryptic kick shit from the crypt sadistic hits with wit I'm quick
Rip crickets in a wicket I'm plain wicked in the rig wearing kid lipstick
I shit on the next shit spit it in ya ear bit like a Qtip
Big silly wickedy witch lickety split in a sitch no dick but talk big carry a big stick
So I'm a girl, I'm white and I write all night with a bare swingin light
On the computer alright a producer
I produced this song- so you who you are you know you were wrong
No I was not in that porn On Blonde got it goin on more James Bond than Sean John
Conned James Cahn for a ticket to and I Love Ferris Bueller like tchhickachickkaa
Please don't ask me who my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face much than you could hear it
Don't ask me who my lyrics
Damn ya you're I'm a slam ya hotter than your can down in Alabama
Where's my camera I 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
Pardon me ma'am was that part of a man or your son I just on the mic and sent home
Big quick shit New York-
Kike and a Wop Wipin a cock walkin the drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
I get that a lot yeah stop take shhh let me show you what I got
Made up my mind- 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 writin a few walkin a few pits and cashin in on that shit
I put out my first tape in '94 if you got one, buy it
I don't got one no more it was called Mitch get my Bunny
That shit was shitty but funny I admit it was but I did it with no money
In 9-5 my CD called Strictly Platinum but it didn't go Platinum it went back to them
And of waitin for someone to put me on
I started a label ran it 'til the was gone, then came along, then was gone,
Money money money, don't try to make it your songs
But like 'n Pepa in El Segundo we push it a long (Push it!)
And then Fat wouldn't take my last LP
So I got egg beaters threw em at the backpacks on 6th Ave. passin me
At the Bagel Buffet planted a bomb to Grays
And when the records rained I sold 'em back for to Fat Beats in LA
It's all OK 'cause Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record
I renamed it-Pharoah Monch featuring Checker
Ha ha mic don't sleep, Princess Superstar