Who Writes Your Lyrics - Princess Superstar

I'm the flyest MC, the finest MC 

The nicest MC, oh, that's boring see, there's another MPC 

So why you think most hip-hop 

Sounds the same except for me? 

Cryptic kick shit from the crypt 

Sadistic lick hits with whit I'm quick 

Rip crickets in a wicket, I'm plain wicked 

Thick in the rig wearing kid lipstick 

I wreck shit on the next shit 

Spit it in ya ear, bit like a Q-Tip 

Big silly bitch, wickedy witch, lickety split 

In a sitch, no dick but talk big, carry a big stick 

So, I'm a girl, yeah, I'm white 

And I write all night with a bare swinging light on the computer alright 

A producer alright, I produced this song 

So you know who you are, you know you were wrong 

No, I was not in that porn 'On Golden Blonde' 

Got it going on, more James Bond than Sean John 

Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes 

And I Love Ferris Bueller like tchhickachickkaa 

Please, don't ask me who writes my lyrics 

I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it 

Don't ask me who writes my lyrics 

I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it 

Damn ya, you're enamored, I'm a slam ya 

Hotter than your can down in Alabama 

Where's my camera? I need a Kodak moment 

Of the moment I made you feel like Hammer 

Son of Sam? I'm the daughter of Sam 

Slaughter a man on the microphone 

Pardon me ma'am, was that part of a man 

Or your son I just whipped on the mic and sent home 

Big quick, shit, New York, Stockholm 

Kike and a Wop Wiping a cock 

Walking the block drop ya jaw to jock to your sock 

I get that a lot, yeah, oh stop take stock 

Shh, let me show you what I got 

Made up my mind like made it up I imagined it 

I don't got a mind, I abandoned it in a cabinet 

So I could be a candidate for writing a few hits 

Walking a few pits and cashing in on that shit 

(Please, don't ask me who writes my lyrics) 

I'll spit up in your face much faster than you could hear it 

Don't ask me who writes my lyrics, uh uh 

I put out my first tape in '94 if you got one, I'll buy it 

I don't got one no more it was called Mitch Better Get My Bunny 

That shit was shitty but funny 

I admit it was dumb but I did it with no money 

In 9-5 my first CD called Strictly Platinum 

But it didn't go Platinum, it went back to them 

And instead of waiting for someone to put me on 

I started a label ran it 'til the money was gone 

Then came along, then was gone 

Money, money, money, don't try 

To make it with your songs but like Salt 'n Pepa 

In El Segundo we push it along, push it 

And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP 

So I got egg beaters, threw 'em back 

At the backpacks on 6th Ave. passing me 

At the Bagel Buffet planted a bomb next to Grays 

And when the records rained, I sold 'em back 

For double to Fat Beats in L.A. 

It's all okay 'cause when Fat Beats 

Still wouldn't distribute my record 

I renamed it, Pharaoh Monch 

Featuring Chubby Checker 

Mic wrecker, don't sleep 

Princess Superstar, the shit's deep