Lyrics The Writer - KIllarmy, 9th Prince

The Writer

Word up, some laid back, type Killa raps
Yo…
I’m a writer, rhyme ignitor
Lyrical sniper, shoot up your rhymin' cypher
Mushrooms get me hyper, face the piper
Rich niggas do a drive-by in a Dodge Viper
Aiyo, I move like the Bionic Man, built like The Incredible Hulk
The streets listen when I talk
You just a devil in disguise, with a mic as a pitchfork
Come against the lyrical lord, we can take it to the guns and swing swords
So look deep into the eyes of a killa, Gaten Island, cap pealers
Raps is realer than silver back gorillas
We thugs from a great complex, lyrical Nat Turner
Staten Island money earners, 9th Prince with the burner
Whether inspector’s, wanna search my bulletproof Lex Coupe
Desert Eagle stashed in my fireman’s boots
Runnin' with four hundred Brooklyn troops
Dressed in all suits like the Nation of Islam
Shoot somethin' in your veins and watch you die calm
Like a dope addict, my automatic’ll lift your back like Craftmatic
Like a cellphone with no signal, givin' niggas static
Don’t get caught up in the hot jam, shit is a scam
Predictable like the Wu not invited to Summer Jam
I’m sick of niggas trynna sell me a dream with weak schemes
Killarm', the 18, rap guns is like M-16's, everybody flee the scene
No matter the producer, I still get looser than Medusa
Neptunes or Dr. Dre, my lyrics, the beat’s executioner
Inspired by The RZA, I’m calm like James Bond, city slum scramblers
I was raised in the ghetto slammer
9th Prince is like Max Payne and Jack’s Hammer
I’m known to be the flow’er, but now call me Thor, let it flow like Noah
Shoot you in your shoulder leave you with a handicap composure
Madman exposure, got niggas movin' like doljias
And it’s over, it’s over, it’s over, straight over
You know what the poet said:
«Through the travail of ages, midst the pomp and toils of war
Have I fought and strove and perished countless times upon a star.»
The age-old strife I see?
Do you know who the poet was?
Me