Rap Shyt

Lyrics

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)