Lyrics Bravado (fg. VII) - AllttA, 20 SYL, Mr. J. Medeiros

Bravado (fg. VII)

Your false bravado it ain’t nothing to me
I’ll call your bluff and have you duct’d like prod
And stuffed inside a duffle Tumi
Ain’t no scuffle newbie, you gettin' jumped like hoopty’s
Looking up and seeing two me’s (Mi's)
Bitch you see the way I drew (Drew) these
Sounding like a couple groupies
You hanging 'round, don’t fool me
The only banging gonna be the sound of pumpin' Uzi’s
And that’s the only time I beat around
Funny, «Who, me?»
«Like a clown funny?
How funny?
Fuck do you mean!?»
I got a twin for that barrel, ain’t no laughs in them
Fastened to your chin like a pharaoh with your stash missing
Fuck a song please, I’ll get to ass whippin'
These Don’s keys gon' lead to you gaggin' on your last written’s
You claim that you bang, but you don’t have victims
Drew fangs I see through veins and you don’t have venom
You ain’t got heat, you in heat and that’s different
Raps so pussy they could probably have kittens, come on
Anyhow, any who
Anyhow, any who
Ay, yo, big amo, grip handle to hold the shit careful
It gotta kick to throw a hippie out his hemp sandals
And if they fit blamo, you now a lit candle
Ain’t got no license to conceal, yo the shit’s camo
I load the clip with carols before I aim and fire
Posted shoulder width and have it sangin' like a chamber choir
Play the wire, you’ll hear the way that I attack a man
Raps that slap a man front and back of hand, that’s a ten
Insane asylum type of batterin'
Mad hatter’n the way I cap a man, baffle 'em
Quick to hang minds up of the scaffolding
Or paint sky patterns with brains in my battle hymns
Aim high, I bet you never doin' that again
Dap a rapper’s hand
Nah, I rather snatch the limbs and clap them back at him
I’m up in the masters den
Ask’n 'em, tell me who’s your master
When you tryna tame a lion with a rack of lamb
Anyhow, any who
Anyhow, any who
Hypothetical violence tryna settle with pride pent
Hiding inside the cryogenically silent
Fire, I find it when I start firing mind clips
Wild am I check for the higher up my temp
Goes it’ll let go the tyrant that I kept
Less known the stress load until it explodes and I’m spent
See when the writer in I vents
It’s on some eye of the tiger type shit
Ayo, these stripes ain’t lying thought the violent gimmicks
Got me orchestrating rhymes with no violin in it
Check the case, type writer with a firing pin in it
Bringing y’all face to face on some Siamese twin shit
That these joints won’t admire these tenets
Just to free that fire and entire three minutes
To decrease disappointments, put some iron heat in it
If it seems disjointed, get the irony in it
Anyhow, any who
Anyhow, any who