Non-Prophets - Tolerance Level lyrics

To the best of my knowledge
I guess that I'm fresh and -
(yo, hold up, hold up) yo Joe Beats
What's the purpose of you stoppin' me?
(I don't know man I want
You to kick the raps
You were kickin' a long time ago
Not this emo shit) aight, aight

I was getting props when I
First started to flow
Makin' this music wrecking shop like
A retarded vocational student
Didn't know it at the time
That the shit made me look stupid
Rockin' pro-black rhymes over "The Devil
Made Me Do It" i never gave two shit's
Bout rockin' new kicks
I ain't the type to wear something
Just cause the shoe fit's
I make moves quick, to your head feet first
I dig women who got more to get
Offa their chests than wet T-shirts
Rep the east turf, I rip the west side
I'd rather eat dirt than ingest pride
My sixth sense shines
Less wack than Mos Def's
Pitiful incense vibe
You couldn't ghostwrite if your
Invisible ink pen died!
Now kick fresh rhymes, and think next time
Before you're paid to be actin'
As an emcee I'm a character assassin
Paid to kill off all
Your made-for TV rappin'
When the shit hit's the fan
I'mma blame it on GG Allin

My tolerance level has peaked
And it's time for heads to get flown
Just because I speak peace doesn't mean
I can't throw no joints (I don't know)

Now I stopped to build a
Bridge during my agnostic pilgrimage
Lost my will to live
So I shot and killed some kids
I'm just kiddin', no I'm not
Into oral bestiality I'm just blowin' Spots
And I got more back than acne
On the slap happy-go-lucky types
Monday Night Football fanatics
Asscrack addicts with thunder bites
Got more bodies on my mic than my pistol
I ain't got a pistol but
There's bodies on my mic (bullshit, you do)
(It's true) And Joe will kill
You with the bullet prose
Throw a book of sample laws towards us
Get left with loopholes
Take my advice: take an 8-mile hike
I'm down by law
Like the back of the jacket on Cool as Ice
Who is nice? Why'd you ask me?
For the last time
I'm nasty - like Nas was at halftime
You fuckin know it like I
Know that's a rental car
Hey sucka poet, whoever ya are

MC, uh uh, people don't call you
Playin' catch-up with old reissues
Of Audio Two
Lots of artists got bitten, I'm not kiddin'
What more can I say? (Bob Dylan)
You play the side of the stage
Like a broken mic stand
You ain't enough of an emcee
To be Jarobi's hype man!
You yelled in double negatives
And couldn't make no noise
Why is that? Ask yourself, homeboy
Wanna battle me while sayin' writtens
It ain't sane
You're better off playing games of
Chicken with freight trains
I'm stickin' to the weight gain
While Dr atkins
Sticks his dietary cock into lots
Of my fat friends now download my manhood
Memorize it's measurements
Then lip-sync the circumference if
The head doesn't fit
You can use your Vulcan grip
On my huge bulging dick
It's the ultimate, ultimate
Ultimate, ultimate, uH

(What does it all mean?, I don't know)