Warin' wit' Banshee's a battle you won't win get boxed into a coffin,
Absorbing your sun like skin wit' melanin lotioned with
Lanolin and Aloe, while you wade in the shallow
I'm freestylin' in deep blue ocean, on a coral reefer.
Just off the coast a Costa Rica bare naked wit' no
Scuba gear on copacabanas, we're smokin Herbie like we
Went bananas, runnin thug niggas over wit' the Love Bug
Live and unplugged it's the perfect drug, they call me
Mellow yellow, the Orientasian in Tokyo, as seen
On screen through Windows in your PC Pentium three
Riding sound waves like a jet ski, Coked up on
Pepsi bad as the best so don't test me, my name's
Written in Graffiti on freight trains, I hack government
War games and painstakingly build raps like model air-
Planes beyond bizarre, makin' tracks like the Paris-Dakar
Through Spain and Morocco on rugged Terrain or
Ferraris in Italy, the talented Mr. Ripley's on a
Spendin' slash Emcee killin' spree, my ID's kept
Secret like Muslim women covered in Muslin or
Spies, everyone dies, on this beach I'm Lord of the Flies.

A true master in rap jujitsu, karma chameleons
(you can't see the Brown Recluse and) Chalyse DuBanshee,
As we slowly fall into focus the Geddon's Fist of the Lotus
Drips wit' poisonous venom and strikes like king cobras.

We're classic composers, our melodies float like Gondolas
You drivel and scribble with crayolas, I bear the world
On my shoulders and push pens wit power to move mountains
Like woolly mammoths on a tundra, my thoughts a vaulted rotunda stationed,
Deep in my brain on an ocean of information and
Data, I channel surf like a Scientific Atlanta.
Born on Africa's horn when the planets were uniform
I swam across the Atlantic on Tropic of Capricorn,
Then hit the beach like a tropical storm, ready to rumble
I tuck and tumble you mumble in a jigsaw jumble I
Crumble walls you erected wit' cannonballs and muskets,
From Sun sets to breakfast with coffee and cigarettes.
My opus is quarantined, there's no cure or vaccine,
DuBanshee scream's the ghost in your machine like Christine,
Eroded your computers modem as you downloaded on diskette
And bust ya wicket in West Indian cricket.
The seventh digit I snipe like rifle shots from a thicket,
With lyrics and B Boy eurythmics, on beat nics
My bic and pencils are extra prolific portraying
Grammar as pictures in panorama, floatin' in Oceania. . .