| To the English language
|
| With this ink, you haters get rode on like a piece of paper
|
| This rap shit got me travelin' place to place
|
| You barely leave your house
|
| 'Cause you’re always stuck at your pad, it’s stationary
|
| Yeah, that’s why when I brainstorm, gotta write it out
|
| Simon Cowell of rhymin' foul, that’s why you sound so shook
|
| Wire bound notebook got tied around your throat
|
| Hook it inside your mouth, go—hruh
|
| That’s what it’s like when the mic is out
|
| 'Cause I’m tearin' at your flesh with it
|
| 'Til your larynx and neck are split
|
| With these lyrics, weapons, expert with
|
| Like hair extensions, extra clips
|
| And you’re scared to effin' death of it
|
| Bitch, you’re starin' at a legend that
|
| In a pair of Skechers, sweatshirt ripped
|
| And hoodie black, should be strapped
|
| To a chair or stretcher, electric, swear on every record, bitch
|
| Finger so high in the air, I’ll bet your senses flip
|
| Like a barometric pressure switch
|
| Carin' less who I offend with this
|
| I’m at your neck like Pez dispense
|
| Go 'head, spit your flow, bitch!
|
| I’m at your throat like Chloraseptic, 'septic
|
| And you got strep, I’m too complex with it, 'plex with it
|
| This shit I wrote is on some next shit, next shit
|
| I’m at your throat, I’m feelin' reckless, reckless, yeah
|
| And I’ll take a hundred of you, hundred of you
|
| All at once like I had nothin' to lose, what can I do?
|
| My appetite for destruction is loose, destruction is loose
|
| And all it wants is to have somethin' to chew
|
| Somethin' to chew, somethin' to chew
|
| Yeah, uh (Haha), and still conjoined at
|
| The hip with hop, still on point and poignant
|
| Skilled as Floyd is
|
| In this field, and still no filter, boy
|
| I’ll put you in your place (Yeah) like a realtor, boy
|
| You still ain’t in the buildin', boy
|
| I will destroy shit, even as I build it
|
| Get the drill bit, pen is filled with poison
|
| Which is the source, easy to still pinpoint it
|
| (Like what?) Like a real thin joint it
|
| (What?) Comes on Quilted Northern
|
| (And what?) In a built-in toilet
|
| (Yeah) Bitch, I told you I’m a dog (Woof)
|
| I wouldn’t heal with ointment
|
| Way I’m kickin' these fairies' tails
|
| Should write a children’s storybook (Yeah, yeah, yeah)
|
| Million voices in my head
|
| But still get a little bit of thrill and some real enjoyment
|
| (Off what?) Off the feel of going in
|
| (Like?) Like your bitch when she gives me brain
|
| Like she thinks I’m dumb
|
| Grabs the crown of my dick and blows me to kingdom come
|
| 'Til I feel anointed
|
| She makes iller noises
|
| When she’s with me, must be from the Windy City, uh
|
| Pretty apparent, she’s a MILF when blowin' me
|
| 'Cause I conned her into
|
| Rippin' the condom in two (Woo!)
|
| Dick is a bargainin' tool
|
| Now I’m gettin' blew like Klonopins, Rude Jude
|
| I go there, you wouldn’t
|
| Well, I still have a few views in common with you
|
| Just not YouTube, 'cause…
|
| I’m at your throat like Chloraseptic, 'septic
|
| And you got strep, I’m too complex with it, 'plex with it
|
| This shit I wrote is on some next shit, next shit
|
| I’m at your throat, I’m feelin' reckless, reckless, yeah
|
| You’re a has-been
|
| That has been the case since back when
|
| You last went and threw your hat in the race
|
| You’ve been trash (Bitch!)
|
| Stick your raps in the trash bin
|
| Or end up in my next rhyme
|
| You’re a fuckboy, so next time
|
| It’s gonna be heads flyin' like Dez Bryant
|
| With a TEC-9 against Rex Ryan (Yeah!)
|
| Now watch me set it like correct time
|
| All you get is sloppy seconds like a Timex, I
|
| Clock rejects into the next life
|
| Talking reckless, but it’s just my
|
| Strongest suit, but you can get my Colombian necktie
|
| Prostitute, just climb in the Humvee and let’s ride
|
| Why you hitching at night?
|
| I put an end to your life, sex crime
|
| Kidding aside, insidious vibe
|
| Girl, you know you got the prettiest eyes
|
| But all you’re getting is bribed
|
| Any old lie to try to get you inside
|
| Then we gon' end up spending the night
|
| And I’m skinning your hide like an Indian tribe
|
| What kind of nut drives a Budweiser truck
|
| Finds a slut, tries to surprise her, cuffs, ties her up
|
| Binds up, cuts, slices her twice?
|
| But the muff diver must just like it rough
|
| Fuck right in her vagina, blood |
| Flies up on the visor, like a geyser, uh
|
| (Music, please!) Enthusiast of the roofie
|
| Goal is to get a floozy inside the Jacuzzi
|
| And have a loosey-goosey as Cool C is with an Uzi
|
| But I am to rap what blue jeans mean to Bruce Springsteen
|
| Glued we be, I’m truTV, you’re too PG
|
| I’m Schoolly D, you’re Spoonie Gee!
|
| No diss there, just notice there
|
| Are no similarities that we share
|
| Besides the fact we breathe air
|
| Happily married to rap and I’m glad that we buried
|
| The hatchet and patched it up
|
| Now I’m back to ratchet up my attack
|
| And I’m at your mothafuckin' throat like—
|
| —throat like Chloraseptic, 'septic
|
| And you got strep, I’m too complex with it, 'plex with it
|
| This shit I wrote is on some next shit, next shit
|
| I’m at your throat, I’m feelin' reckless, reckless, yeah
|
| And I’ll take a hundred of you, hundred of you
|
| All at once like I had nothin' to lose, what can I do?
|
| My appetite for destruction is loose, destruction is loose
|
| And all it wants is to have somethin' to chew
|
| Somethin' to chew, somethin' to chew |