This is a pretty accurate description of what my writing environment is like....really.

Beat: Shadowville.com

Lyrics:
Let the pen hit the pad, fuck no good throw it in the trash, a little toy man comes out of the ground and empties it out. And from above I hear a sound, a mechanical hand drops down, blank paper in its grasp, hands it to me and goes into the ceiling to fold back. My ink well needs to be refilled I got an army of gnomes ready to do my will. An alarm pierces the silence so shrill. Haters at the door it's me they want to kill. I press a button and my sentry robot begins to build, up its energy its getting ready to unleash and punish any faggots dumb enough to step to me. I chuckle at the sound of murder and demolishing. I feel wetness on the floor its my cyber dog slobbering. I point him in the way of the carnage and he starts clobbering. I gotta get back to my work, no time to be interupted no sir. As my words hit the page ,they come to life like a puppet master live on stage, before I get into my real writing phase, I hear the sound of my death robot overheating and about to enrage.

In my workshop the gears turn, putting words into rhymes, rhymes into verses, verses into songs, thats what goes down in my workshop.
So many ideas brought to life, in my workshop I control your fate through the pen, the chisel, and the knife, write about pain and strife, and never will it stop and thats what goes down in my workshop.

I hustle to my robot and enter the shutdown protocol. Whoo, what a close call, but look at this mess, so many bodies torn to shreds, I bend down to clean up the dead but my gnomes swoop into action instead. I shake my head, everything in here goes to plan, I can just press a button I dont need to lift a hand, another song about be done, gotta send it to the QA gnomes they always give it a real run, checking each word and pun, they love their work it's their life and their fun. And if they ever tell me my shit's whack, then I pick 'em all up and throw 'em in trash, fuck it man, I can make some more gnomes from scratch. Maybe the next batch will be nothing but hot bitches with that fat ass.

In my workshop the gears turn, putting words into rhymes, rhymes into verses, verses into songs, thats what goes down in my workshop.
So many ideas brought to life, in my workshop I control your fate through the pen, the chisel, and the knife, write about pain and strife, and never will it stop and thats what goes down in my workshop.

I need some new ink, the type of shit when read put cats to sleep or maybe make 'em deaf so they cant hear me creep. My shelf of ingredients so nice and neat, hmm lets see...what do I need? A bushel of mark ass bitch feet, and maybe a sprinkle of weak rappers tears, thats when I hear the sound of the gears as they start to grind, The engine room has to be in perfect working order for me to write my rhymes. I inspect the machinery with a trained eye and eventually I find, the source of the problem as it leers, my robotic dog got caught in the gears. He looking like he in pain and fear, but im pissed off show no remorse, I banish his ass as I scribble a verse, on the walls, something like "little dog you dont belong here at all, spend 100 years sucking on rosie o'donnells balls" See, that's the power in this pen I wield, if I wanted to I could write about you running backwards through a cornfield, and the funny thing is you will.

In my workshop the gears turn, putting words into rhymes, rhymes into verses, verses into songs, thats what goes down in my workshop.
So many ideas brought to life, in my workshop I control your fate through the pen, the chisel, and the knife, write about pain and strife, and never will it stop and thats what goes down in my workshop.