Rap Shyt

If you ain’t got no bodies
Don’t talk to me about killing shit
Physically or lyrically
You illegitimate ignorant niggas get
Snapped in half, quick as the middle
Of a fiddlestick, your chick will get found on some drowned in the river shit
With a icicle sticking out where her liver sit and her skin is pale as that bitch maleficent
This isn’t just bars this is lyrical imprisonment to implement the slaughter of the innocents over instruments
Every sentence is intricate listeners are the inmates of my naval brig
Held captive by my pen-man-ship
Bigger they are
Harder them artist will fall when the beat rock I put crack on paper call it sheetrock like when I’m performing its part of a wall
As you eavesdrop on the hardest of all
I should perform these drops at
Carnegie Hall like you seen Bach
Don’t compare me they don’t come near me, what the fuck
I sit on all these babies I babysit em like I’m uncle chuck
Sometimes I wear my pants a size up so the gun’ll tuck in the cold streets a cold piece of steel is the way I bundle up
Even when the sun is up
The price of murder is undercut, that just means your numbers up
When It’s time to get my numbers up
Speaking of numbers
I'm subtracting the wack just to sum it up Oedipus Complex I’m exposing you sick mother fucks
Feeling like Hip Hop Weekly again
I’m in my three piece again
Funeral music till my shit blow like
Feces in wind
Separating my talents from the human species again
As soon as E.T. begin
Extraterrestrial hoes caressing my testicles while you texting professionals
Spending your checks on the sexuals
I get head from intellectuals
My nuts spread on they breastuals
Then I play dead on a sexy hoe
Laying in bed like a vegetable
Get more leg than an exit road
But for the bread I'mma exit though
Cause for the bread with the decimals
I pull sleds with the Eskimos
I duck feds up in Mexico
I push X for the extra load
That’s low res but F it though
Need more eggs for my breakfast bro
Let the records show I once had dirty hands
30 bands in my duffle bag rapping to
30 fans
Cause this lyrical lane is dying quick but that shit is cool
I just side hustle go home and dive in my swimming pool ouu
Back in the day I was getting my paper wherever the plugs meet
So I could afford to keep rhyming like I’m in a cypher even on club beats
Syllable syllable lyrical miracle still in a plush suite
Still in the front seat of my Benz playing Biggie’s What’s Beef
It’s rap or die can’t let you fuck with my apple pie
If I’m standing by while you take it what kind of man am I
As a rapper I
Feel like a samurai in the camera’s eye living by the sword and the camera guy is the man up high
Lord all I ask could you help me then bless the real niggas who felt me and I’ll be wealthy amen (amen, amen, amen, amen)