Yeah… the Prophet’s back, smellin’ like smoke and sweat. You can’t scrub this sound off your soul! The funk’s too deep, the groove too foul — So grab a seat, sinners — class is in session! I rise from the alley, crown of dust and wire, Spit heat that sets the speakers on fire. Every verse I drop got grime on the frame, You can hear the dirt callin’ my name. This ain’t no clean-cut, shine-shoe tale, This is cracked concrete, whiskey and rail. My gospel’s grit, my hymn’s unrest, I preach in static, confess in jest. Don’t need no choir in silk and lace, I got street ghosts hummin’ bass! Filthy Sermon! Yeah, the Prophet’s unholy! Raw, loud, rude — that’s the code, homie! No saints here, just noise and motion, The beat’s my sin, the mic’s devotion! Filthy Sermon! Funk on the floor! Sweat drippin’, speakers sore! If it’s too real, step aside, The Prophet’s speakin’, the street’s alive! I don’t walk straight — I strut crooked, Talk bad, look worse, and the crowd still took it. Every rhyme’s a brawl, every beat’s a bite, I’m the midnight preacher in the flickering light. You want truth? It don’t come clean, It drips from the edge of a broken dream. The drums don’t clap — they swing fists, The bass growls mean like it don’t exist. I’m here to stain the sound with soul, Make ugly feel good, that’s my goal. (Dirty Prophet, bring that heat...) (Dirty Prophet, twist that beat...) (Dirty Prophet, bring that heat...) (Dirty Prophet, twist that beat...) I’m the sermon they warned you about, The laugh in the dark, the holy shout! Yeah — we don’t repent, we groove. Yeah, the Filthy Sermon’s done — But the dirt don’t wash off, it spreads. Keep the bass rough. Keep the rhyme raw. The Prophet ain’t clean — and that’s the law.
