[Verse 1]

Got another letter in the mail today/
Municipal court, sayin’ there’s hell to pay/
Already mailed away my life’s savin’s/
Ain’t even got enough to make the next payment/
Shorted on my statement, holdin’ out the paycheck that make rent/
What am I to do, provide a few more that don’t make ends/
With the type of life that I would like, to try to make amends/
Bitch I meant amendments to the snakes that tried to shake my hand/
After spittin’ in my face, act as if we all good/
Algorithm interlaced with ratchet, now we all ‘hood/
Malnutrition evident as African Somalia/
Remind us to rewind us to Rwanda ‘fore we wall it up/

[Chorus]

Uh, feels like I’m back in the Land of the Lost/
Mentally off, sendin’ ‘em back, like a lamb of the gods/
You play your cards right, player, you can walk like/
Simpson on a mountain, touch The Void, and even talk like . . . you was El Diablo/
Really you back in the Land of the Lost/
Mentally off, sendin’ ‘em back, like a lamb of the gods/
You play your cards right, player, you can walk like/
Simpson on a mountain, touch The Void, and even talk like . . .

[Verse 2]
. . . Like a commoner, that’s hardly makin’ cents/
Respect the moniker, but conqueror don’t pay the rent/
At least I’m positively bombin’ shit to make amends/
My crater killed the dinosaurs, you hardly made a dent/
A rap colossus with a nasty conscience/
Slap-box and be like Watto with a fat proboscis/
I be like water, way I pad the pockets/
Jurassic Park, motherfucker, bringin’ back the fossils/
As if they already dead/
The job of Docktor Speckter’s resurrecting the heads/
Because the rest of ‘em fled from continents, like what you read about/
The only difference, you opted for the scenic route/
I see ‘em out, respected host within the culture-cypher/
Lookin‘ like they seen a ghost, and I ain’t poltergeistin‘/
Lone tyrant, likeness of the lone survivor, then/
Blaow! More in the holster than the whole Macgyver/

[Chorus]

[Verse 3]

Like you the big cajones, really you Mad Max on a mad dash/
Fittin‘ to backdraft on the rat pack, ‘till they backlash/
Could it be Black Hatz, that captured your attention homie?/
That been promoting using deadly force, no Ben Kenobi/
I bent the bogie just to look so Afro Samurai/
Too bad that stogie don’t attest that I’m a stand up guy/
Like Jack, who ran awry without a trace in fact/
A man of lies who can’t abide the rule of racing tracks/
Because they all cylindrical/
You claim to hate the craft, because it’s all too cynical/
I’m all subliminal, in message and the act alike/
So heed the message in the after-bite/
We keepin’ record just to pass the time/
Dock Speckter, here, the FIN, he be the mastermind/
I maximize the grind to Max Calibre/
Calipers, piecing back the mind, where the matter was/

[Chorus]