Top Dog - Viro the Virus

Jersey’s Finest…

It’s going down…

Back in effect

Alright okay, check it out

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Stampeding like a psycho Rhino

It’s the wino named Viro and I know

You can’t see my flow with either of your eyeholes

Try and get played like Tyco

I snipe foes nocturnal with night glows

And ride out back to the hideout to light dro

Too much to deal with with ill shit steal your meal ticket real quick

Then flip the kill switch

A bio-hazard rhyming bastard

Grab the mic and lightning flashes, then rappers turn to piles of ashes

Multi-syllabic with cult-like status

Cold Colt 45 and a ho tied in my attic

Pour some out on the floor for Rick James

Think of Dirt McGirt and do the same thing again

From the womb to the tomb, my momentum gains

And music flows through it like it’s dope in your veins

Yeah, V shot calls like top dog

An advocate to sex, drugs, and hip hop, off the wall

Sick dope, dope sick

Yeah, to all of you and y’all and all of them listen

V shot calls like top dog

An advocate to sex, drugs, and hip hop, off the wall

Sick dope, dope sick

Yeah, listen at full attention, you don’t wanna miss him

Yo, you can never bend me like a jheri curl

Even when I’m 'bout to hurl off a St. Pauli Girl

With no money for bubbly

I still get balls-deep in barkeeps from Coyote Ugly

Got a PhD in advanced flow studies

That keep it bouncing like Man Show Juggies

Tighter than bosom buddies, good, bad and hungry

And got mad hoodrats that love me (Why?)

Cause I’m fluid and I’m well-hung

Do it till it’s well done to leave losers with their bells rung

Bring the beef like meatloaf

Every MC’s nightmare but fans say he’s such a dreamboat

From a cloud of weed smoke I emerge

With obscene quotes and rhymes with fighting words

Out for glory and whores with nice curves

And I can end your story at the tip of the iceberg

I’m either too trashed to dance licking acid stamps

In the classic max stance with a trashy tramp

Or inhaling spliffs in Motel 6

With underage runaways taking black tail flicks

Or drinking gin with a harlot

Stepping on peasants for pestering me to touch the hem of my garment

Or in the stu taking bong hits

Morphing my morbid portraits to song to put em on disc

Either way I’m not the kid to play

My display peels your mask away then leave your masquerade in disarray

Hung with fellas who had the map for Zelda

Now I hang with cats with blunt wraps and paraphernalia

Fulltime failures plotting on part-time bank tellers

To get dough for a crib with a wine cellar

Boy I tell you they don’t write em like they used to

So I hit the stu and cooked this up like couscous, here