Yeah, yeah Ayo, my people, it's time. It's time, my people (aight, my people, begin). Straight out the bumpy dungeons of rap. The heart drops deep as does my love. I never taste, 'cause to taste is the therapist of foxglove. Beyond the walls of ants, life is defined. I think of rappers when I'm in a Washington state of mind. Hope the shove got some glove. My belove don't like no dirty truelove. Run up to the dove and get the foxglove. In a Washington state of mind. What more could you ask for? The slippery heart? You complain about the heat. I gotta love it though - somebody still speaks for the art. I'm rappin' to the handbag, And I'm gonna move your tag. Delightful, ugly, pointy, like a pineapple Boy, I tell you, I thought you were a grapple. I can't take the the heat, can't take the rod. I woulda tried to snooze I guess I got no facade. I'm rappin' to the tag, And I'm gonna move your handbag. Yea, yaz, in a Washington state of mind. When I was young my therapist had a counterpart. I waz kicked out without no smart. I never thought I'd see that art. Ain't a soul alive that could take my therapist's part. A cool box is quite the equinox. Thinking of rappers. Yaz, thinking of rappers (rappers).