I don't know what he's saying

Ok, first and foremost understand that I stand by this statement now and forever: Anyone who can translate each and every wu-tang lyric, I'm talking all the side projects and everything, deserves a PhD. For real, no joke. In fact, I think every african-american studies department needs a Wu scholar, an individual not necessarily gassed on the Wu but understands the crossroads of Shaw brothers, 5%ers, and underground economies that Wu represents.

That being said, and knowing full well that I got mad love for ghostface for being one of the grimest individuals on the planet point blank, end of sentence, don't try to say a thing about it before I brush your teeth for you son,...WHAT THE HELL IS MY MAN TALKING ABOUT? Those words don't go together. The big doe rehab? I feel like a crusty baby boomer (Whaddup adam!)trying to listen to liquid swords. Like I know he's speaking English but it just don't make sense! You have so much doe(dough?) you need to go to rehab? Ok, but if you're in rehab for spending cash, do they put cash all around you? I'm not hating, I just don't get it.

I'll tell you this for free, it's gonna be a Wu christmas for this boogie negro. The dig doe (dough?) rehab drops on the fourth and the next week Wu's 8 diagrams comes out. John Frusciante from the Red Hot chili peppers is on it and not to cash in all my street cred, but "Blood sugar sex magic" and "Uplift Mofo party plan" were my god damn soundtrack in high school. Plus, it's Rza. Really, what Rza needs to do is put out an instrumental album and just blow the dome of the entire fucking planet. Put a period on the end of the Wu sentence like a mother.

Sorry, but whenever I write about Wu-tang, I have to talk like Ghost. So to say peace out, here's a poem from the master lyricists. And since some don't know how to read: this is the Wu! If you're easily offended, don't peep what's next! (I'm sick of crab ass wish-the-PMRC-were-back-mothers!)

Mercury raps is roughed then God just shown like taps
Red and white Wally's that match, bend my baseball hat
Doin forever shit, like pissin out the window on turnpikes
Robbin niggaz for leathers, high swipin on dirt bikes
Voice be metal like Von Harper radio bubble
Murder sleep away camp, the fly lady champ
The arsonist, who burn with his pen regardless
Slaying all these earthlings and fake foreigners
In the Phillipines, pick herbal beans, bubbling strings
Body chemical CREAM, we burn kerosene
The conviction of my tape is rape, wicked like Nixon
Long-heads inscriptions with three sixes in
Kiss the pyramid experiment with high explosive
I slapbox with Jesus, lick shots at Joseph
Zoomin like binoculars, the rap blacksmith
Money's Rolex, with sparkles, Chef ragtop is spotless
I'm Iron Man no cheap cash metal I'm steel alloy
True identity hidden inside secret tabloids
Breathe oxygen both sides of my jaw carry oxes
The track hit like the bangers, in hundred watt boxes
Yo jostling these cats while Little J be deli-ing
Sip Irish Moss out of Widelians