Money Folder

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone After you who's last, it's Doom, he's the worst known That'll have your boom blown or even thirst bone Rock it to a worst clone, just don't curse the throne Own his own microphone, bring it everywhere he go So he can bring it to you live in stere-ere-o Pan it, can't understand it, ban it The underhanded ranted, planned it and left him stranded The best, any who profess will be remanded Yes sir, request permission to be candid? Granted I don't think we can handle a style so rancid They flipped it like Madlib, did a old jazz standard Don't mind me, I wrote this rhyme lightly Off of two or three Heines, and boy was they fine, G One Black, One Spanish, One Chinese It keeps the woody shiny year round like a pine tree Don't sign me I'm about to get a mil without em Grab him off the shelf, he's the villain, and what about him So and he's a jerk and you don't know him Mad how he expand work but won't show 'em Poor guys, what a sight for old, sore four-eyes Now hook me with two apple pies and a small fries All rise, so far art as a Rupple So raw break it down and make quadruple It's crucial, you could see it in his pupil And this time when he get it he'll waste it on somethin' useful Like getting juiced off a deuce-deuce of cokey Keep it low key, known to pull a okey-dokey Silly Goose, Doom is too jokey Damn he could really use a room or a whole key Egads, he got enough styles to start three fads True dat, she bad, I wonder do she come with kneepads What a call, what a real butterball Either I get a strike or strike out, gutterball Rock it like gear for the fall With knives inside pockets, prepare for the brawl Yeah y'all you could say its an earful Beware, do not touch mic, be careful And just like he said, I coulda told ya MF, the holder of a boulder, Money Folder It ain't funny nigga Money Folder