Lyrics:

We on some Phantom of the Opera shit
It's Gothic shit
As I produce the waterproof mask
Never asked a question
(I am behind the red mask)
(About to a drive-by on emcees, so listen...)
Aiyyo!

Yo, my mic check is RoboTech
Run over the track 'til my lyrical Giga Pet slow flow
Cardiac arrest like FloJo, rock ice Ro-Ro
Pack fo-fo, fo' sho tho
More and more 'CREAM'
And niggas still 'Love You, Rakeem'
The Game of Death, we kickin' niggas in the chest like Kareem
My wingspan is wider than Rodan
My sweet and sour niggas wit' nose candy sniff blow by the gram
I grammatically slam; before I eat a groupie bitch pussy, 
The Honorable Minister Louis Farrakhan is eating ham
So catch me in Deep Space Nine
With eight million stories on seven continents
And six billion bullets on the Star Trek
Solid state logic, thug niggas electronic
Eat, drink, sleep, shit, fuck, build, and smoke chronic
Playa – this is not a game, I said it before
Went through the door, I came with Wu-Tang
The Artist Formerly Know as You
Got snatched out his truck on Florence and Normandy, duke
We strictly digital... digital...

Yo, yo, yo, yo

The Last Starfighter, my thoughts make the sun shine brighter
I bust in a bitch mouth to make her teeth seem whiter
Roam like space drones, through all time zones
Your face get blown, I make home, Bobby'll fuck Grace Jones
Mocha caps with dilithium crystal
Raise the pendulum, cuts through your ear tissue, Digital signal
Scramble your brain, then regain residuals
Like Microsoft, my mic might go off before the lights go off
You derelict bitches, I give your tonsils eighty stitches
Bobby long strong, even fuck the Eastwick Witches