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)