The Microphone Molesta’
The chevy undresser
Stupid dope fresh tight sh*t resurrector
Top gun man mod best of the besta’
The living MC peace and resta’
Still tested the flexed gunna’
The make funna the appisary make runna’
Make summa cold with rhymes that spit
Get gifted, lifted, deliquent ’wit
I be the prophet, in my hand
Top it, stop it, felt like rockin when I rock it
Locked it down with this perverse verse
Every f*ckin’ curse I burst to hurt
Room crowds physical fitness rhymes
Coke heads couldn’t do my lines
Decorated like christmas pines with Italian rocks
MCs become silohetes in shock
Reading my eyes will say it in many ways
Losing my pride will save it in many days
Hit the dirt
Because the words I spit will do more than just rip your shirt
I’ll b*tch slap your soul
Track the track control
You coming at me?
You can’t hack it though
So rediculous
Watching my crew get sick of this
Wickedness
Pitchin this
Lyrical brichisness
To crews and cliques
Maiden, men, and mistresses
This is my life
The twilight, the fight night
And trying to see nothing but the highlights
When I write
These eyes on horizons
Top of Mike, start cries on to Krylon
Fire on, rude men telekenetically
As aterically beats become a clarity
Feel averity’s heroism, and heracy
And severe every MC I see with Neverity
Reading my eyes will say it in many ways
Losing my pride will save it in many days
Hit the dirt
Why not
What a keep
Why not
What a keep
Why not
What a keep
Why not give me what I came to deserve
Why not give me what I came to believe
Why not give me what I came to deserve
Why not give me what I came to believe
