Who Writes Your Lyrics

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? Ha Cryptic kick shit from the crypt Sadistic lick hits with wit, 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 wickedly witch, likely split in a stitch 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 swingin' 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 goin' on, more James Bond than Sean John Conned James Cahn for a ticket to Cannes And I love Ferris Bueller like chi-ki-chi-ka 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 wipin' a cock, walkin' 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 get a mind, I abandoned it in a cabinet So I could be a candidate For writin' a few hits, walkin' a few pits And cashin' 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 '95, my first CD called Strictly Platinum But it didn't go Platinum, it went back to them And instead of waitin' 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 a long (push it) And then Fat Beats wouldn't take my last LP So I got egg beaters, threw 'em back at the backpacks on Sixth Avenue 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 OK 'cause when Fat Beats still wouldn't distribute my record I renamed it Pharaoh Monch featuring Chubby Checker Ha-ha-ha, mic wrecker don't sleep, Princess Superstar? The shit is deep