Speed Queen

Say to me, “Buona sera,” ‘cause I’m jacking beats from girls
and I could shine up the Apple like they be rubbing the pearls.
I squirrel rhymes in my cheeks. Yo, I spit them at will.
And I be rolling Louis Prima like a fifty-dollar bill.
Still feeling the bump in my nose, and those who jock me
get this advice: 7-11 is selling coffee.
I know, I see you need to go all night,
on account of that girl you’re taking home ain’t going to sleep.
Nuh-uh, not without a fight.
Right there I seen her in the club (yup) cutting it up.
The way her nose is bleeding, she did a rail not a bump.
Something else: she ain’t holding, so I hope you is,
‘cause if she’s crashing, you ain’t about to drop the jiz.

She’s all up in your cabinets, pilfering your little bro’s Ritalin.
She be burning it down while you’re fiddling.
Acetylene torch to the tube, that’s why her teeth look all fucked.
But on the other hand that isn’t the only thing she sucks!
You gotta be giving this girl at least a couple of days;
you been sniffing it too, so it ain’t like you’re gonna be sleeping anyway (hey!).
So you say: “Baby, baby, why you shaking? Is it me?”
Nah, she been twitching in that manner ever since 1993.
And she weighs eighteen pounds dripping wet.
She keeps on growling at you, I’d take her to the vet,
get her a little ket— uh, I mean, hold on, one at a time.
First crush those No-Doz up fine, then cut her another line.
This girl does ten times more crank than you could if you tried.
And if I took even half that I’d die.