Letras: Apathy. 1,000 Grams.

"Three, two, one, contact!"

[Chorus: x4]
[Apathy:] "Representin' like what"
[Biggie:] "1,000 grams of uncut to the gut"

[Verse 1:]
I'm the type that'll keep my Nikes extra white
Like seein' God's girls in fluorescent light
Plug camcorder cords in electrical fixtures
Take sensual kisses with identical sisters
(And they better give up the ass) Celibate bitches
Are gettin' held under water like developin' pictures
Incredible spittin', got your skeleton twitchin'
Your head'll be twistin' like a demonic medical condition
'Till you vomit and your body is liftin' off of the bed
In position of a crucifixion with your arms spread (You're all dead)
I'm hip-hop's apocalypse, let up and Ap claims the crown
Faggots, step up your rap game
Suckas get shook from shoves, chick checks
You're a bitch, you'll be cleanin' my kicks with Windex
I'm a gigolo, get a ho bitch that's rich
Or a little thick chick in a 626
I'm consistent, you know when Ap spits it's sick
Yeah, you're different...more like a chick with a dick
I'm a Pisces, addicted to girls, clothes, and Nikes
Material and spiritual, both worlds excite me
Flows fracture foes' flak jackets and rip fabric
A rap addict badder than you backpack faggots
Ap's a beast, the cake's like crack on streets
You swear that you deep, but you can't rap on beat, bitch

[Chorus]

[Verse 2:]
Stop the muthafuckin' pressure 'fore the pipes all burst, the mic's don't work
The blows that I throw lift you right off Earth
You'll get...clocked in the face and rocket through space
Shout out your hood, watch your whole block get erased
A superhuman supersoldier, hotter than a supernova
Money multiplies like ??? with Super Soakers
A true rap addict, y'all don't never want static, homey
You'll be at home gettin' that homeopathic
Listen...I don't care if you Christian, Muslim or Catholic
God got a whole iPod filled with Ap's shit
Y'all came for cream but get very little
'Cause Ap reign supreme, y'all barely drizzle
Metaphysical, still count cheddar better than digital
Money machines runnin' the scenes, summon the fiends, I'm lovin' it though
Makin' an abundance of dough
Runnin' the show, pumpin' blow 'till I'm numb in the soul
A child from the 80's era, you couldn't paint it clearer
Grew up with moms snortin' cocaine off a mirror
Those are all the little things that make me me
Couldn't focus my brain and blamed A.D.D.
On the contrary, Ap is like mental level
Hence the mental state rate grows exponential
But, if y'all wanna brawl, better call Paul Wall
To fix all them teeth Ap knocked outta your jaw, punk

[Chorus]