[Verse 1: The Walkman] I practice magic These rapper poetasters practice s**ing phallus I could craft these raps until my hand is callous In fact, it's practically habit I could tap out a rap on a tablet Sew scraps to the back of my jacket In the pattern of a rhyme And then turn around and rap it I'm magic And you're average trash, just jack sh**, whack sh**, ba*tard But why so serious? Seriously, I am not this furious I'm just a little pissed how you act once You insist that you won't get packed in my sack lunch But you shouldn't be oh so sure You shouldn't feel so secure 'Cause I can slip through straight jackets like I was covered in vegetable oil I easily weave my way through incomprehensible coils I can read your mind I have mastered hypnosis And I don't know if you noticed But I f** with this hokus pokus Theurgy
[Verse 2: The Walkman] My spell book is a dictionary And I can't tell if that's funny or not I am a missionary But b**hes don't toss me the box a lot I knock beats right out of the parking lot When I start to stock up my magical tricks You s** like a bag full of dicks You ingrate, inbred ape, and b**h I mumble an incantation I give a flick of the wrist I would take the sk** right out of you but it doesn't exist f** your stupid disc I got the gist in a minute It's premise is easy to mimic Your sh** is a gimmick and nearing it's limit You should either be tutored or neutered Hip hop needs a suitable suitor And I am the dude of the future You're not even suited to use a computer But that hardly seems to matter As you will become a cadaver When I make your career disappear like Abra f**ing kadabra Theurgy