Year Nine
I don't wanna talk about the crimes
Not talking bout the criminals or ways they meet demise
And them eyes are hella black, you say democracy’s a time line
And if you measuring my back, I'm less than five 9
That's hella short, and now you fishy like tilapia, trees
You’re getting green and now you're saying you're the mafia bees
Damn, well I don't want no beef then
Everybody jerky and I'm chillin on the weekends
But still you're drawing me in, I'm on the drawing of three
You tell me “pick up the pen”, and I'm just trying to read
But still I write a couple bars and they sound like
Cuz every word is sounding hard, all around I’m
Focused on the craft while I hear a mumble rap
So I’m taking out my book (pop pop) bubble rap
Making humble slaps, and I'm playing to the sun
Look behind the dark night, and my training has begun

Alliy, what is the dopest insect?
The bee