Week 35 Broome High

My last will and testament: weed, speed, and mescaline/ And a glimmer of a notion, that most of you'se irrelevant/ If it wasn't for your mix, you'd sound like shit/ Pound the same ideas into your weak ass spit/ Like: "Money, Bitches, Weed...Man"/ "I'm such a fucking G man."/ BOO! You're killing me Smalls/ I spit flint, ground into to grit, to make calligraphy ya'll/ Hieroglyphs in a inch of my writ forms a symphony ya'll/ Beethoven deaf, catch wreck, death sent for me ya'll/ Gargle napalm while I lit up my cigarette/ Feel that bass drum and piss 'em off like the President/ George W Perry, Michelle Palin.../See what I did there? Ah fuck it/ Comatose Crocker, the comeback cracker/ Forty-seven staples and a magnum wrapper/