garbed in celestial garments that’re Heavenly, MCs is petty parttimers with no pedigree / my 3rd eye’s open, blowin’ weed on sofas, throwin’ poems just to keep my blood flowin’ / snortin’ methadone off a Hacksaw Jim Duggin poster / Milo totes twin 40 calibers just to show who goes 1st/ my vocals is loaded foul / when I’ve spoken tha verbotin, you witness Milo’s illness from Southern Cal / Twist’s quite prolific ‘n’ malignant with a terminal sentence / you ain’t sayin’ shit ‘cuz I cut your tongue out / rap’s like gun bouts / I joust rappers with answers to questions that they never asked about / you MCs wear short revealing skirts, thongs ‘n’ a blouse / I swipe your purse wearin’ my kerchief then go hide at tha crack house / I’m flame like tha ovens at Auschwitz-Birkenau / you covet what’s indoctrinated in my rap covenant / my Hip Hop axe cuts wigs in half as my syntax grabs every last synapse / transfixed on gafflin’ you wack savages’ neurotransmitters ’n’ implantin’ microchips in your cabbages / abusin’ mics like nose candy with tha sniffles / MCs’ wack styles are brittle ‘n’ pitiful, typical ‘n’ identical / I spit a few ‘n’ ear sockets are hijacked / fear tha God when he rhymes thunderclap shit / I spend half clips outta twin gats at backs of tha blasphemous / my thoughts pierce flak jackets like hollow points with cyanide in it / Science mixes stress with crack ‘n’ releases mental stress when he hits it / ink lays to rest between lined sheets where he scripts limmricks / Genesis, Leviticus, praise tha God when his pen spits reptilian / I send fleshes back to tha essence / Techs kill, soldiers move on tha chessboard / my vocal chords turn scores of assorted subordinates into corpses / they shoulda forfeited fast / sport a fitted with Timbs ‘n’ I got short porn bitches with ass / pens is forced to scorch hardcore / my bars was forged double-edged ‘n’ I scuffle with those who got rebuttles / my score is all 10s / it’s tha Last Days of Time / last night I supped with true friends ‘n’ broke bread with Jesus Christ / I embody deep rhymes that eat mics raw, designed to cause 9 planets to align after I talk garrulous / I put flares in clips so I could see you at night when I make tha mic spit / I’m a rap terrorist / I’ll hold Paris Hilton hostage, accost tha bodyguard who’s an off-duty cop ‘n’ splash him with tha Glock I got out his pocket / my quill spills content that leaves Hip Hop novices astonished…
Any errors in Twisted's lyrics are solely that of typist & not in any way reflective of Twist's original handwritten work. Twist reviews typewritten work sent him by snail mail, any needed corrections are made & returned via snail mail from Twist who is in belly of beast.
Listen to me spit over phone from prison, serving 12 yrs for robbery
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