Women cry, children laugh, men dance
I refuse to lose self and try to win fans over
Weight on my shoulder fluctuates like Oprah's
My refrigerator poetry's magnetic like ultra
You couldn't hang if you was a poster
Posin like a bitch for exposure
It's rumors of gay MC's, just don't come around me wit it
You still rockin hickies, don't let me find out he did it
Got My Eyes on the Tiger, Eyes on the Prize
Eyes on the thighs of Mary J. Blige, imagin on how good the cat must be
Stop eatin meat, lost weight, but I still rap husky
My verse depth is that of a baby's first step
Or the old lady who died and the nurse wept
I flow like cursive writing, invitin you and yours to my openess
Shows allow me to cop Range/range like a vocalist
But man does not live on bread alone
What good is a Range/range when it's time to head home?

last verse from Nag Champa