the best rapper alive
Yea that's right you better walk away
Go on and walk away cause I'mma burn this motherfucker down
King Kong ain't got shit on me
Running them ghetto streets, I ain't cooking up nothing
But I got the tea kettle on side of me, that metal on side of me
I dare you to follow me, I'm double daring you to follow me where the drama be
His momma in debt, so she can't pay the funeral fee
So wherever them candles at, that's where the funeral be
Kids don't get sleep, guns keep 'em up real late
Walk in the school, shells laying on the concrete
Take 'em to school, show and tell, for that final grade
She gave him a 'F', I say that young boy deserve a 'A'
Cause she never slept where he slept, or seen ricochet bullets rip
Through his cousin's face, ripping his face off
I aim the fifth straight, concentrate like I'm playing golf
I'm Tiger Woods with a gun in my car, I keep one in my car
And keep a bitch with implants, so she keep one in her bra, boom
Shit, make room for the lil bastard
The flyest nigga you seen on centennial campus
The eight ball tucked in my jeans while I'm getting patted down
They didn't know I had it on me, stupid security
No one securing you, if I'm gon' touch you
If I don't like you, the Mossberg pump love you
I take that back, it probably just wanna go and fuck you
Go with you, then dump you inside the coneal confortable
Defending my belt, depending on nobody but myself
Unless you talking 'bout money, I need yo help
I need some help, they say that my screws is loose
Like handlebars on mongoose, this is true
You tough rappers, I'm talking to you
He ain't on no used to shit, but you see his face grew
He say that he fabulous, but really don't have a clue
That he just a puppy living in this zoo
Shit, whoo, with that said, you should know I am the truth
The truth hurts, you should feel pain when I'm done with this verse
I'm done.... psyche, I ain't finished
Ever since the first grade, been bad with the run-on sentence
I never sat the benches in the game of life
I played the whole forty-eight minutes, Christ
I rap with precision and lyrics, is grandma nice
I'm cooking up something, you want you a slice? Then get it
I'm holding my stomach, I'm shitting, I'm farting
On any rapper thinking I'm in his vision, is you retarded?
The CL got my head spinning awkward
Bought it last month, 'bout to put it up for auction
I'm not rapping, I'm talking powerful
And for that dirty money, boy, the Mac'll shower you
The Mac disintegrate, and then devour you
The mag'll forget you, regurgitate and sour you
I world trade you niggas, north and south tower you
Steroid, my authority overpower you, the industry ain't affording me
They might as well just give me my money and start ignoring me
Cause y'all niggas boring me, y'all ain't making no dollars plus no cents
I swear, y'all niggas foreign to me, foreigners
I tell you what, go and tell it to the coroner
Killing 'em whenever my performance come
When I do it, it won't be nothing right after I'm done
When I ruin niggas' careers, put you niggas in tears
Get you pom poms, you better off, cheer for me
Shit, the new money is here for me