Thou hast not the facilities to make contact with this,
These melodies that maketh my appendages swell,
And throb with deepest passion's bliss,
No crime is my rhyme, or my feet that dance and dwell,
Those anodynes to my depressed mood,
An extra lofty homeboy from the oaktown,
My reputation as such precedes me, a lewd
Beat as this; thou has not the facilities to touch, nor its reknown.
Must I labour the point? This beat is beyond thy reach
Yes I must labour the point: Thy hands cannot fathom this,
Massive melody with wanton wickedness replete,
With their guidance thou cannot go amiss.
    With mighty longjohns and bonny lasses,
    I spit my lyrics for the masses.