| Self-loathing narcissist
|
| Spittin' crowbars out the back window of cars and shit
|
| And acting like a Klonopin binge, hardening
|
| And switching up the moniker of artists into arsonists
|
| Knock-knock, it’s that prodigal pen-throttle, bitch
|
| Popping like the top of a bottle of hot JavaScript
|
| Rhyme harder than nine joggers with
|
| Shin splints dodging an ornery rhinoceros
|
| Order me my waffles and bother me not, blogger
|
| The option of being modest just walked to where my father went
|
| Ponder how we can holler then spit darker
|
| Than Gotham at six bars in the genre then lick shots
|
| At imposters and miss nada, volatile pig brawler
|
| Is hotter than lit parliament singeing your fucking arm
|
| In the parking lot of a Target, I’m targeted, piss-harboring
|
| Heart dark as that thick parka I slip markers in
|
| Holla if you’ve never been a starter
|
| Spartan kicking jocks and tossing salt at their Ed Hardy shit
|
| Burning chops, talking shit, rocking 28's on a rocket ship
|
| So I could give a fuck about the car you in, nigga
|
| Drool and chew aluminum
|
| Blue 'Preme overalls, jump when the Goombas come
|
| From where you should run, from where the shooters come
|
| Out for cheese with a studio, it’s like a gouda run, it glues to us
|
| Shouts to pigeons that I flew amongst
|
| Mouth deliver poop, it’s spouting mucus from its stupid tongue
|
| Alpha male, got the chickens looser than his cruising trucks
|
| Losers get a Kuma Punch, keep it moving like a puma’s lunch (Thanks James)
|
| And I’m… back
|
| Bye |