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I walked in a saloon at high noon, the moonshine sipper |
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Spit a new rhyme till it's asta la vista |
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The king balloon twister, smash your transistor |
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"It's the High Plains Drifter", that had to resist the |
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Sickness of the city life, I sat by the river |
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A packet of Rizzler and a flask full of liquor |
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Made the locals ask: "who's the masked figure?" |
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Fill a page with the pain it seems you can't picture |
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The last heavy hitter, so many consider me |
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To be very bitter, switching up my delivery |
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Stitching up my injuries, and flipping imagery |
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Mixing toxins till I'm lost in the synergy |
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Drown in my misery, a man of mystery |
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I stand in the blistering heat as the epitome |
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Of the anti-hero, tipping my Stetson |
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Space cowboy, I drink whiskey with George Jetson |
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Two thousand and one, the space western |
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Quick on the draw, bring a war to your section |
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Blood Sport veteran, contraband cargo |
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The known desperado rolled into ? |
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[Scratches] |
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[Verse 2:] |
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I ride with lost peasants, hot stepping across deserts |
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Letting the dust settle for sheep who watch shepherds |
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Yeah I rock sessions, with unorthodox methods |
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The messenger, ready for death when God beckons |
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On frontlines worldwide kids have got weapons |
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And grey skies hide sunshine from the heavens |
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I'm threatened, by the seven sins of my species |
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I don't need TV, I read tea leaves |
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Smoke the peace pipe, in the chief's tepee |
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I speak freely, the 3D graffiti writer |
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Is kinda like the new easy rider |
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More bad apples in the cruel and cheap cidar |
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I breath fire, the propane flamethrower |
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Man the fort for this hostile takeover |
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I play poker-faced, hold a ace |
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Tucked up my sleeve, leave your mouth with a sour taste |
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That's just how I play the game nowadays |
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Apologies to the crowd, I'm a hour late |
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[Scratches] |
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[Verse 3:] |
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Battling me? That'd be an embarrassing mistake |
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Like promoters who don't get the "H" in the right place |
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My mic stays in close range, I travel the low plains |
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But drift on a high like cocaine |
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Exchange words with the man with no name |
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Inspectors, throwing up letters on the ghost train |
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I rotate, like old brakes on chrome plates |
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Hunched up, punching keys till my bones ache |
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I blow fakes outta the water, chucking harpoons |
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You can't move, running on the spot like a cartoon |
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Leaving a trail of destruction when I pass through |
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The drunk fool, fighting off demons with a barstool |
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Screaming "Ja Rule", my instincts are carnal |
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The dirty rascal, or the king of the castle? |
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I'm partial to both titles, the soldier's quote in the Bible |
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Holding my rifles to false idols |
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I love the crackle on the old vinyl, I rock break loops |
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And make moves from my HQ |
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I stay true to the ancient ways |
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The herbalist curb-surfer riding paper waves |
