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True Lord of the Concrete Jungle
I‘m the true lord of the concrete jungle,
Urban king of the ghetto dweller.
Built like a small black, 1971 Mark111 Lincoln Continental.
Me and my intrusions work in shifts, when a million arrive and million split.
My b*tch*s kick it in the crack of flats, slumming around with my heirs on their back.
Every night, I roam the city, looking for a fix, that taste of something grimy and gritty.
I’m the original door kick, in a home invasion,
my antenna’s keen radar, can scan all your crib’s sh*t, like that cat Schwarzenegger in a terminator flick.
I have no boundaries, I taint it all, tables, sink, counters, even the floors in the hall.
When the lights turn on and you catch me on the wall, I just play in like Darth Vader spread my wings and free fall.
So the next time you come running with that chancla, just remember
You can’t get rid of me, I’m a Cucaracha!