Songtexte: Buddha Monk. Prophecy Reloaded. Man's World.

[Intro: (James Brown sample) Buddha Monk]
(It's time to dance, it's time to dance)

[Chorus: (James Brown sample) Buddha Monk]
(This is a man's world) I shot ya...
(Somebody better call the doctor)
(This is a man's world) I shot ya...
(Somebody better call the doctor)

[Buddha Monk]
How dare ya'll cats try to front on me
Thinkin' like, you the shit, that's why you better than me?
Check it, I got sixteen that'll split six spleen
And definetly hollow points, so you can get my point, nigga
I ain't worried about buying no cars and shit
I just walk around the corner, and take your shit
Go ask the hood, do the Monk guns bark (ask them)
Go ask my hood, am I a True and Living God (peace God)
The answer you'll get, don't fuck with him
Do you wanna live, man, don't fuck with him
You'll also get the haters and gun fakers
Yea, I shot at them, that's why they all fucking haters
And I'm sure you'll wanna be like me
Cuz you told your bitch, and last night she told me
Motel 6 and I wanna thank you for your bitch
You can have her back, she's all yours, bitch
I come from a land where gangs don't play
D tuck block and g's weed cops
See that kid on the block, sagitarrius that hate you
Shhh, don't say nothing, I hate you too, faggot
You ain't a man, you still a pea shooter buck
Shut the fuck up, before this man fuck you up
I'm serious, this is my world, stay out of my ring mic
I bite your ear off and feed it to your fucking wife, nigga

[Chorus]

[Buddha Monk]
What you think I'm playing, oh you think it's a joke
Take two of these and feel these notes
I was born in a world with a silver spoon bent
Wooden spoons disrespect, across your chin
Pops standing on the corner with a hand full of gin
Shake, rattle them dice, I need chicken in the fridge
And my bids, I don't do skid bits
I get football numbers to counter your wrist
You can party at the rastas, Asta Spumanti
Shine two women in the club, while puff leaves your lungs
It ain't where you from, it's where's your gun
And where's your heart
Fighting is for fun, but busting is a gun art
I'm anoid by ya'll, seven scores by ya'll
Meaning the war I got with ya'll was made by ya'll
See what causes friction was the slick talking the talk
Your walk became important, cuz it's when the guns talk
I'm a big guy, and ducking they knives
Snipe one off, pick you up, go head, let the shells fly
You ready to die, not ready as I, come on
Tell the truth, you want the days to go by, right?
Let no man, fuck with G-Monks
Got them thang-thang niggaz, that'll put a nigga under, for real
You wonder, how you got the case of runs of
Gun diarrhea, now I'm dancing with thieves, yup!

[Chorus x2]