Hardest Clique

[Verse 1: DBX]
SPC is the hardest clique
DBX don’t give a fuck ‘cause you a star that’s rich
When it comes to flow, we are the shit
We started this from the darkened mist
This Texas chainsaw slaughter shit
AC Chill is who I’m mobbing with
Gangsta NIP don’t even trip on who he squabbing with
We hard to hit and still on niggas talking shit
PSK gon’ grab your jaw and twist
Point Blank gon’ fuck you, bitch, even though your father’s strict
We are the risk when you target ditch, your car get hit
Now spark and spit, you’re dumped in the darkest ditch
And five-o ain’t solving shit
They acting fraudulent when we walk into the park to sit
You wanna snitch on DBX, I beg your pardon, bitch

[Verse 2]
If you don’t give a fuck, nigga, then throw it up
If your clique be coming down, nigga, then throw it up
If your clique be popping trunk, nigga, then throw it up
If you fuck with SPC, nigga, you know you fucked, man
Hold up, nigga
The diabolical, dead hair follicles cause baldness
Mass murder’s what you call this
What determines which clique’s the hardest
What makes the hardest rap artist the motherfucker that stays the same regardless
From ‘8-6 to 2G
Just take a long look at me
I ain’t Ginuwine but I’m the same fucking G
Still hoop and Macgregor, still kick a rhyme whenever
Down to flip or fuck some hoes
Still down for whatever

[Verse 3]
The hardest motherfucking clique coming straight out the Park
And get your head split bitch ‘cause this axe blade sharp
And keep it like that, nigga, the game is real
You must be sick if you think a psychopath won’t kill
Now let me take a second just to tell you what I’m about
And try to [?] everybody in this bitch no doubt
You want a nigga to run inside this bitch and handle his business
You want a nigga to run inside this bitch and murder the witness
And move something motherfucker, the psych might do ya
(*mouth sound*) just like some sand when the wind went through ya
Don’t give a motherfuck, nigga, the pallbearer’s inside
Adding up the money he would make if six niggas died

[Verse 4]
Playboy, it’s whatever, whenever, however you want it
Been on that other level, nigga, quick to severe opponents
So fuck the world, shit trick, me and my clique forever on it
They call us hustle gang vest, these youngsters caught up in the moment
You heard’a me, same nigga set up shop and hooked it with cookies that weighed 33
I got niggas that watch my figures, tryna murder me
Miss me with it, I’m SPC, playboy, since ’93
This for the ballers and the geekers, the crawlers and the creepers
The 20 inch skaters, the park bench haters
Capping but you can’t fade us, bitch, you down in your gators
Slap a nigga for practice, bad actors major factors
These the niggas I started with (Now what?)
That SPC, best believe that we the hardest clique

[Verse 5: Point Blank]
Point Blank was richer with the crumbs before you got the bricks
I’m the one when I hold three trigger your face, I slap the bitch
I put our load on top of my load and I ran with it
The same shit you rap about hate to see me live it
Now who the fuck you was talking about in that rhyme you spit?
All that giggling shit, think a nigga ain’t listening to yo ass, boy
Give me some space before I slap you with my dick
You worse than a dry pussy bitch, can’t even get my finger wet, and yeah
Back in high school, I heard you was a punk
Always calling home, “Mama, mama, help, they tryna beat me up!”

[Verse 6: K-Rino]
I metamorphosize into a new advanced fully enhanced
Super brain hurricane against the grain, see futures at a glance
Take a chance with the hood professor but don’t try to wreck
Be 34 and rap opponents 30 styles and 30 dialects
No mouth popping if you ever say my clout dropping
Watch me run a thousand laps around your ass without stopping
Proceeding to rip a style, I verbally trip a while
And smile and whip a pile of hoes, hit ‘em, they flip a mile
You played with K-Rino, stayed with it for days
Made your face look like a grenade, hit it 400 ways
You holler, “Why me?” I called his house, I knew he was home
His caller ID said, “Man, you better not pick up that phone”
Poets are prolific, proportioning, posing paralysis
Critical writer, verse wrote when existing didn’t exist
Crash the show and scared the coldest rhymesayers to death
Even the motherfucking microphone shit on itself
I’m with the hardest clique