as cars claw, clench beats, i am the streets
and rat bastard children now we all,
man you got beef, throw hands or hit yo' feet
like great men we undoubtedly rise and fall.
johnny dug tunnells and spelunked thru sewers
caught up in mad beautiful graff manuvers
simmer-summertime, block thy self from too hot rays.
it aint bout art its about the beef they say
that they'll never seem to overstand
stand hit mad spots but be so discreet they say
be demonic as the son of sam.
spray colors on spots and then sit pretty
rip through the torn ligaments of the city.