Tim Westwood Freestyle

[Verse 1]
Rollin’ in a broken Mitsubishi with no AC
And a couple stolen TV’s and a seatbelt for my safety
Play the passenger, I think it’s five years after eighty-
Seven, do that math, 92, don’t you be lazy
I’m looking out the window, notice all the essentials
Of a block party that stopped for a second
Then it rekindled like the flame from a trick candle
Everybody got dental insurance, ‘cause we bout to floss
You get the couch I sent you?
I heard that from a block away, probably had credentials
Of a scholar, but should not today
Them Dayton spokes was his to take
Refrigerators, barbecue pits, and Jordan kicks
They did invasions while helicopters recorded it
Hello, my Mr. Myiagi, I want them Kenwood Woofers
Say that you got me
If not, I’ll dig in your drawer for it
The swap meet was the bullseye like a Taurus is
Murder was the melody, you should know what the chorus is
You really telling me we can just get some more of it if we run out?
He said “Lil nigga, today the poor is rich”
Don't tell your mom that you seen a molotov bomb
And if she asks, just know that you have to lie
And son, don’t forget:
You from Compton

[Verse 2]
Brace yourself, I take you on a trip down memory lane
This is not a rap on how I’m slinging brick and moving cane
Cul de sac and plenty Cognac in major pain
Not the drill sergeant, but the stress that’s weighing on your brain
It was me, O-Boog and Yaya
Lucky, ride down Rosecrans
Ugly, waving yo hand out the window, brace yourself, uh
Warriors and Conans
Euphoria can slow dance
Society, the driver seat, the first one to get killed
Light skinned nigga with his brains blown out
At the same burger stand where (mmm) hang out
Now this is not a tape recorder saying that he did it
But ever since that day, I was looking at him different
That was back when I was nine
Joey packed a nine
Pakistan on every porch, it’s fine
We adapt to crime
Pack a van with four guns at a time
Sliding door, fuck is up?
Fucking shooting forth, if you ain't walking up, you fucking punk
Picking up the fucking pump
Picking off you suckers, suck a dick
Die a sucker punch, a ball of bullets coming from
AK’s, AR’s, Aye y’all; duck
That’s what Mama said when we was eatin’ that free lunch
Aw man, god damn, all hell broke loose
You killed my cousin back in ‘94, fuck yo truce
Now crawl yo head in that noose
You wind up dead on the news
And no peace treaties just peace and BG’s appearing to prove
Bodies on top of bodies, IV’s on top of IV’s
Obviously the coroner between the sheets like the Isleys
When you hop on that trolly, your color’s correct
Make sure each corporate knows they’ll be calling your mother collect
Now, what you expect?
My life is a threat
Good kid, m.A.A.d. city
Life or death, is you with me?

[Outro]
Tim Westwood, what's up