Don't Get Angry, Get Gangsterer Lyrics

kids stopping to see this when I drop on a remix
don't get angry get gangster, throw it up like bullimics
pieces of genius, pop it in and the beat hits
it's s-i-c-k, now drop the prefix
it's ck undercover, like cops rocking t-shirts
ck spits the thunder that's rocking your speakers
what I pour on the page or perform on a stage
it's like New Orleans one day, I drop torrents of rain
the orchestra plays, I turn the music up loud
take my time to create like a cumulous cloud
til I reach capacity, achieve a mastery
recharge the batteries and be hard as athletes
I come out swinging like Bonds in September
first at-bat back and double to deep center
think I'm hitting for average when I scribble on napkins
make the beat with the magic then I'm ripping a splash hit

stage name is ck, it's just two letters
grade-A methods from Sun-Tzu's lessons
Art of War hardcore born in The Trilogy
far more than Star Wars metaphors and similes
my force is enormous, words like lightsabers
and keep this flow fresher than a class of ninth graders
sleep days, write nights, I work to be perfect
bleed dreams, eat beats, breathe words, I speak verses
rehearse this in the same dorm room I record in
splatterpaint my brain like a Jackson Pollock portrait
I'm what the doctor ordered, but don't get it twisted
I spit the sickness in your system like Syphilis
my songs stick to skin similar to Siamese
they see the ck, think Calvin Klein designer jeans
or Carbon and Potassium for chemists that's listening
just know it's Charlie K when my record is spinning

rhyming from my basement, eyes on the Fillmore
I got the drive like a young Happy Gilmore
y'all is played out like Nintendo 64
but I keep them coming like the Paris Hilton video
MCs think slow as 56k modems
my flows hit hard as steeltoes to the scrotum
I shock like Raskolnikov or Holocaust lit
explosive like drinks with Malatovs mixed in
drop jaws, not soft, this Art of War hardcore
when I yell Trilogy I don't mean Star Wars
the only dark side I know is inside my eyelids
so I flipped the moon to see this side of brightness
Pink Floyd to Thursday, musically literate
bring noise like birthdays filled with little kids
I kick this music through the mind of a menace
you couldn't touch what I spit if you were my dentist