check tha narrative, hand-written imperilous, imperative, parables that I spit, they’re like spare ribs/ juicy off tha bone, on tha loose-leaf syncopated with tha vocal metronome, I’m a mogul in tha terrordome / I blow spots like coke rocks with hosiery pulled over my knot, robbin’ with tha Glock cocked back / shove tha microphone ‘n’ cause lewd acts / I bruise fame spittin’ over Wu-Tang / I heard you spit, y’all dudes is lame / I got tha game engrained within my brain, you try to tax my syntax ‘n’ ill capital gains / blow you out tha frame / I’m sorry, it just ain’t gonna work out / like O.J. ‘n’ Tawny Katain, I’m more hungry than tha Hunger Games / walk up to your Range ‘n’ start to spray in tha windowpane / as your blood drains, your last phrase is my fuckin’ name / thought cuz you had advance change ‘n’ a corporate name on a chain you was exempted from gettin’ ya wig dented in? all that cream wasted, coulda helped tha youth in organizations for education, leave their minds open to fact authorization / savage ‘n’ crab rappers have had way too long a duration / we need a lyrical rejuvenation / life is like a violent chess match between Christ ‘n’ Satan / I take tha mic ‘n’ stab you where your face is / I’m tha most ever Caucasian, palest of tha flesh, I cause duress ‘n’ splash tha internet with an Intertech ‘n’ you walk away with fiber optic splinters in your head, you inbred hillbilly with tha kissin’ cousin name Fred / at least you kept it in tha family, I seen my skeet up on his hands ‘n’ teeth, whose next? ya Goddamn Grandpappy?
Last edited by Twisted Science; 02-08-2014 at 06:34 PM.