Luyện nghe bài hát Who Writes Your

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

I'm the flyest MC the finest MC the MC oh that's boring see
another MPC so why you think most hip-hop sounds the same except for me?
Cryptic shit from the crypt sadistic lick hits with wit I'm quick
Rip crickets in a wicket I'm plain wicked in the rig wearing kid lipstick
I wreck on the next shit spit it in ya ear bit like a Qtip
Big silly bitch wickedy witch lickety 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 light
On the alright a producer alright
I produced this so you know who you are you know you were wrong
No I was not in that porn On Golden got it goin on more James Bond than Sean John
Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes and I Love Ferris like tchhickachickkaa
Please don't ask me who my lyrics
I'll spit up in your face faster than you could hear it
Don't ask me who my lyrics
Damn ya you're enamored I'm a slam ya than your can down in Alabama
Where's my camera I need a Kodak moment of the moment I you feel like Hammer
Son of Sam? I'm the of Sam, slaughter a man on the microphone
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 Stockholm
Kike and a Wop Wipin a cock the block drop ya jaw to jock to your sock
I get that a lot yeah stop take stock shhh let me show you 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 hits 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 dumb but I did it with no
In 9-5 my first CD called Strictly Platinum but it go Platinum it went back to them
And of waitin for someone to put me on
I started a label ran it 'til the money was gone, then along, then was gone,
Money money, don't try to make it with your songs
But like Salt 'n in El Segundo we push it a long (Push it!)
And Fat Beats 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 rained I sold 'em back for double to Fat Beats in LA
It's all OK 'cause when Fat Beats wouldn't distribute my record
I renamed Monch featuring Chubby Checker
Ha ha mic wrecker don't sleep, Superstar