| No substance known, could phase these vet’s minds
|
| Get booed off the stage
|
| And tell the crowd, «maybe next time»
|
| Insanely fresh rhyme
|
| With a Lord Finesse attitude
|
| But still used to half ass applause
|
| With less gratitude
|
| The average views?
|
| The track was oddly sour
|
| Or the best thing since Gold Bond medicated body powder
|
| A shroud of what a sorry coward fears
|
| Hear it any louder
|
| You might catch a bad case of cauliflower ear
|
| It’s like no power steer fluid
|
| A turn for the worst
|
| Rappers getting hexed
|
| Like discovering an urn with a curse
|
| And replaced with tears from their saddened lover
|
| With bad luck, like you gracing this year’s Madden cover
|
| A habit of a- being astute course
|
| Factoid grab the mic and bust off with brute force
|
| To my cohorts, leave the Bronx heading due north
|
| And cross the Tappan Zee
|
| And you might run into two fourths-
|
| Of the Gang
|
| Yo, the other two grown mans
|
| Nomad, mic scavengers with no homeland
|
| The duo known to crash venues of fake crews
|
| And just steal the show
|
| Like we were Elwood and Jake Blues
|
| (Make moves)
|
| Might be the only rapper crying after sex
|
| Cause I be lying if I stressed
|
| That I be grinding past a sec
|
| Maybe a second and a half
|
| My weapon jetting fast
|
| Wetting crevice in your ass
|
| Tears are stupid
|
| Jeers took in to do this
|
| Fears booking the new shit
|
| «Here's looking at you, kid»
|
| Years put in to boost it
|
| A melancholy two manner
|
| Wool slanter
|
| Seven onlay tooth planter
|
| Loose banter
|
| Kevin Ollie to Bruce Banner
|
| Uncouth manners
|
| Getting jolly with goose dander
|
| Caboose rammer
|
| In pesticide metropolis
|
| Philosophic, iller prophet with the homonyms
|
| My team of specializing operatives
|
| Fine dine pasta dish
|
| Non-cooperative, killing hostages
|
| Pouring wine down my esophagus
|
| Trying to hitch down my spine
|
| You imposter, bitch! |