| You better bite your tongue, cuz if not you’ll fight a gun
|
| My raps are street like a bum, I write scum
|
| Corner raps, you caught a crack in your skull
|
| Tryin' to talk back to the quarterback
|
| I call shots, I sold pot to old twats
|
| I ran through different blocks like I had no pops
|
| I get vexed, attack your headset, kid you’re dead next
|
| You ain’t sick, you won’t flip
|
| I don’t trip, I don’t get pimped
|
| I got ownership of all of my own shit, I’m not homeless
|
| Like all you rappers on your label’s dick
|
| Ya not controlling your shit like you’re a disabled bitch
|
| The Brooklyn hustler with the Psycho-Logical family
|
| You disrespect us and we’ll bust shots at you randomly
|
| You gotta hand it to me, I made alot happen with nothin
|
| At least now I’m clappin for somethin'
|
| Bump this, rock this, pump this, obnoxious
|
| Brutal slang, psycho shit, toxic in boxes
|
| Kid sit back, absorb it, cuz you know this shit be morbid
|
| You wanna flip? |
| Go flip pancakes
|
| I can’t take cats that front with fake handshakes
|
| You’ll need more than a hundred bandaids on your face
|
| When you get laced with blades, I can’t wait
|
| Your time’s comin, watch it kill you
|
| As I kid I fought dirtier than Mildew, and I still do
|
| I’m still ill too, like when I was a kid runnin through the PJ’s and I mushed
|
| you
|
| And I’ll mush you again, you’re soft like a cushion, don’t push me,
|
| I butcher men
|
| I don’t mean to brag, I sold green in a bag
|
| To fat pigs and old men who need it bad
|
| And thugs that got jipped but never popped shit
|
| Cocaine with cut inserted like a Glock clip
|
| I had to walk it, before I was able to talk it
|
| So dont look at me awkward, get off it |