[Verse 1:]
I walked in a saloon at high noon, the moonshine sipper
Spit a new rhyme till it's asta la vista

The king balloon twister, smash your transistor
"It's the High Plains Drifter", that had to resist the
Sickness of the city life, I sat by the river

A packet of Rizzler and a flask full of liquor
Made the locals ask: "who's the masked figure?"
Fill a page with the pain it seems you can't picture

The last heavy hitter, so many consider me
To be very bitter, switching up my delivery
Stitching up my injuries, and flipping imagery

Mixing toxins till I'm lost in the synergy
Drown in my misery, a man of mystery
I stand in the blistering heat as the epitome

Of the anti-hero, tipping my Stetson
Space cowboy, I drink whiskey with George Jetson
Two thousand and one, the space western

Quick on the draw, bring a war to your section
Blood Sport veteran, contraband cargo
The known desperado rolled into ?


[Scratches]


[Verse 2:]
I ride with lost peasants, hot stepping across deserts
Letting the dust settle for sheep who watch shepherds

Yeah I rock sessions, with unorthodox methods
The messenger, ready for death when God beckons
On frontlines worldwide kids have got weapons

And grey skies hide sunshine from the heavens
I'm threatened, by the seven sins of my species
I don't need TV, I read tea leaves

Smoke the peace pipe, in the chief's tepee
I speak freely, the 3D graffiti writer
Is kinda like the new easy rider

More bad apples in the cruel and cheap cidar
I breath fire, the propane flamethrower
Man the fort for this hostile takeover

I play poker-faced, hold a ace
Tucked up my sleeve, leave your mouth with a sour taste
That's just how I play the game nowadays

Apologies to the crowd, I'm a hour late

[Scratches]


[Verse 3:]
Battling me? That'd be an embarrassing mistake

Like promoters who don't get the "H" in the right place
My mic stays in close range, I travel the low plains
But drift on a high like cocaine

Exchange words with the man with no name
Inspectors, throwing up letters on the ghost train
I rotate, like old brakes on chrome plates

Hunched up, punching keys till my bones ache
I blow fakes outta the water, chucking harpoons
You can't move, running on the spot like a cartoon

Leaving a trail of destruction when I pass through
The drunk fool, fighting off demons with a barstool
Screaming "Ja Rule", my instincts are carnal

The dirty rascal, or the king of the castle?
I'm partial to both titles, the soldier's quote in the Bible
Holding my rifles to false idols

I love the crackle on the old vinyl, I rock break loops
And make moves from my HQ
I stay true to the ancient ways

The herbalist curb-surfer riding paper waves