Mountain Kind

I shalt not front a little, 'cause I'm Frontalot.
I climbed Mount Sinai, got high at the top.
Blew the cloud straight up, and the voice I heard
said, "You were born to front!" I said, "Word?"
Stumbled on back down, two tabs in my hand.
Chiseled little on the one it said: "Don't be bad."
And on the other one, written: "Be as bad as you like."
That one under the tongue, then I grapple the mic.
"All right, hear ye, hear ye, I have here some commandments:
number one is, you'd better make me a sandwich!
Second up, God says I'm in charge.
Word from on high: Frontalot ought to live large.
It's the dawn of the age of the MC Front!
Melt down that calf, I'ma gild my butt,
I'ma gild the mic, I'ma gild my tongue —
or I would if it hadn't already been done."

Every goddamn time that I get this high,
feel like I'm gonna hit my head on the sky,
and I try to leave it alone but I can't.
The mountain kind, what they call the plant.

Up on top of Mount Olympus, I was dissing them all.
Said, "Your beats is short, and your words is tall.
With your molehill rapping, some gall you got,
made attempt to step to M. Frontalot."
I shot flares in the air. Zeus said, "Don't do it!"
I'm messing with the old school now, and truant.
Gone blue in the face, I drop bass —
drop rhymes so thick that they take up space.
Um, ways and means to an end:
I'm in need of a sherpa when I smoke this blend.
Ascend! Spark it up like the sun,
lose a digit or two off of my IQ before I'm done.
Unconscionable, this habit.
Better quit before it's too late, dagnabbit!
Every time when I climb my ass down
then I'm done... till the mountain come looming back around.