| Fun, even funner
|
| I’m the gunner sub-machine gun
|
| It don’t seem right, that they don’t get my theme right
|
| They don’t know me
|
| So we move forward
|
| More words & phrases
|
| My style amazes
|
| Come into the scene with the means to rip shit
|
| My brain’s power packed with the proper equipment
|
| So step
|
| I come inta the area to bury ya
|
| I compose the flows
|
| Makin' people merrier
|
| Never the less, I sever the flesh
|
| With a razor
|
| Reserve the major beef
|
| I’mma slay ya, hey
|
| You never came across a person like me
|
| I never instigate
|
| First come strike me
|
| Then I’ll flip
|
| And rip clothing, and I’m loathing
|
| MCs who front like I don’t know things
|
| Uh uh
|
| Check again
|
| I get wreck again
|
| On the down low
|
| Because you sound slow
|
| Retarded MCs get neglected
|
| & check it
|
| Anytime I hafta show a foe
|
| I’mma flex it
|
| Then I exit
|
| With my records & my next shit
|
| Prepared, so be scared
|
| I strike unexpected
|
| I write rhymes in sections
|
| Testin' my slang
|
| I bang MCs with these
|
| & make 'em hang
|
| Dangle, what’s ya angle?
|
| When I strangle and choke
|
| I hold Bennedicts by their throat
|
| Until they sing notes like a canary
|
| Fairy, or genies
|
| We slipped out
|
| They never seen me bust his face
|
| I like bass when it hums
|
| And that sums up my properties for the dum-dums
|
| Someone need to check him
|
| Deck him
|
| Slam him
|
| And put him in the bushes
|
| So 'shush' kids
|
| No one needs to know
|
| I’ll proceed & go into
|
| And then tell ya what I’ve been through
|
| «In one ear, right out the other
|
| Go tell ya sister, go tell ya mother
|
| In one ear, right out the other
|
| Go tell ya father, go tell ya brother
|
| In one ear, right out the other.»
|
| I would feel comfortable
|
| If your front would go elsewhere
|
| Or disappear
|
| Hear my specific style that’s speaking
|
| Creeking, making noises in the nightime
|
| When I write rhymes
|
| I look out my window
|
| It’s a bright day
|
| And I might display my skills in the hills
|
| Or, in a different neighborhood
|
| Cause my flavor could
|
| Be the best, so lets test this
|
| Yes, bitch
|
| I saw you posted at the pool table
|
| I could never talk to you
|
| But now a fool’s able
|
| With the best of luck
|
| And, hey, how do you impress a duck?
|
| By pullin' out a wad of bucks
|
| Shucks
|
| I need to stop this
|
| I plop this, played this
|
| I murder MCs
|
| & leave their pens inkless
|
| Do you think this is a twist
|
| A turn, I insist
|
| To burn those foes who haven’t learned
|
| To keep they mouths closed
|
| Guiness Stout flows
|
| Through your intestines, when life is depressin'
|
| I built my foundation using patients
|
| Some didn’t hear us
|
| Some had to state it… |