|
What I write in a verse is like magic tricks |
|
Copperfield, grab your chick, cop a feel |
|
Cock the Glock for real, give you some cop appeal |
|
Dynamite vest, nah ain't stressing nothing |
|
With a smiley face sticker on my detonator button |
|
Haters ask, "Is he bluffing? " or, "Is he bugging? " |
|
I don't know but I don't fuck with weed with the seed stuffing |
|
What I blaze gets me oh so higher |
|
Burned more white widow smoke like an old folks home (on fire) |
|
I make change cha-ching, I can hang a playground |
|
From a charm you should see the way my chain swings |
|
You got the balls to diss? Won't have em afterwards |
|
Cause when I rap contenders get killed after all my words |
|
I'm tired of all you rapping nerds trying to critique my shit |
|
Like I ain't the motherfucking master of the baddest verse |
|
Celph Titled and the AOTP alliance will travel back in time |
|
Smack you, have your baby teeth flying |
|
[Verse 2: Jus Allah] |
|
I am Rob Zombie, I am the omni of dishonesty |
|
I'm a prodigy and atrocity |
|
Not a lot of promise in me |
|
Positively not a drop of modesty |
|
My philosophy is the policy |
|
I believe in nothing |
|
Try teaching a beast peace and loving |
|
Juggling, my beliefs need re-adjusting |
|
My life with sticks and rocks |
|
Kick, punch, block |
|
It was not a box of butterscotch and soda pops |
|
I have filled a plot of mud, spilled a lot of blood |
|
Watch the drops dripping flood, hit the top stud |
|
I have crashed a lot of waves, dug a lot of graves |
|
Drunk a lot of grapes, I have fucked a lot of babes |
|
I'm do not disturb, I have touched a lot of nerves |
|
Struck a lot of curbs, I have cut a lot of curves |
|
You are none of the above, push come to shove |
|
You're all motherfucking puppy love and country clubs |
|
[Verse 3: Apathy] |
|
Y'all motherfuckers ain't running shit, y'all are simply runaways |
|
I walk the surface of the sun while you're rocking stunner shades |
|
I'm in Hell shoving flames while you're sweating summer days |
|
I'm the son of Satan, son of Sam, sicker some will say |
|
Got a flow so cold that I could blow the sun away |
|
Even if I kick a free someone still gonna pay |
|
You could get blasted, body in a funeral casket |
|
And cops searching for deoxyribonucleic acid |
|
Slay the fascists, Pharaoh fans pray for classics |
|
Come through in Raiders jackets to make this magic |
|
I'm a holy man, Voodoo priest, rebel that'll shoot police |
|
You wake up from this nightmare and change your little doodoo sheets |
|
Skeleton crusher creature from the cryochamber |
|
The naughty nasty trashy microphone annihilator |
|
It's AP apparently you motherfuckers miss me |
|
Some dude tried to diss me now that kid's history |
|
[Verse 4: Planetary] |
|
Now you see it's misery, I heard it needs company |
|
Who the fuck else wanna bleed in their Dungarees? |
|
Planetary man, the evil rap Desert Eagle |
|
Clap all your people get ready for the sequel |
|
Needle set to vinyl, now it's time for your final thought |
|
What's your last wish? You's a minor fined in court |
|
Twenty-five to life, rap electric chair |
|
Spit a sicker syllable, nigga slash like the slayers hit you |
|
Get the picture, this a Kodak moment |
|
Mo Yak flowing, pussy, bet your throwback on it |
|
I'm a break bread only if the bread ain't stale |
|
Take young niggas to school, I heard school's like jail |
|
This is punishment government shit that you fucking with |
|
Esoteric, I told him in swords drawn and dump the clip |
|
Hear the battle cry piling up the dead soldiers |
|
Know to tear it down, we get it down, the blood runs colder |
|
[Verse 5: King Magnetic] |
|
Do the drive-by, hop out the wheel like caged hamsters |
|
Rage amped up, hammer time without the stage dancers |
|
I really doubt we killing it the same |
|
I'm Magic before retirement, illest in the game |
|
Diligently aim at targets without the Pizza Hut express shit |
|
Put em in a long box like bread sticks |
|
Then dip marinara with garlic |
|
Marijuanaholic, carry arms like you're sidekick |
|
Show 'em the whole and drop it |
|
Your show's supposed to be monstrous |
|
Only known for obnoxious |
|
Knowingly holding most of them hostage |
|
No one closer to top ten |
|
Coka Nostra and Rakim roast the most of the Pac shit |
|
Overdose with the prophet |
|
Hold him over, don't drop him, watch us |
|
Nonsense and dont slow up the process |
|
Hate on my project, lay you unconscious |
|
Screaming on the phone like you won a radio contest |
|
[Verse 6: Vinnie Paz] |
|
The only fucking thing I love is my long knife |
|
The .45 cal click, pow, put you on ice |
|
Before the devil know you dead you should call Christ |
|
All I hear is barking out y'all, a real dog bites |
|
If you wanna split the tribe you should call Fife |
|
I'm the real father of creation of God's life |
|
LeBron in the beginning of the game, yeah I toss white |
|
Calm at the beginning of the pain, Dalai Lam-like |
|
Then I put your fucking brain in a strong vice |
|
Eat your liver over fava beans and some warm rice |
|
Y'all motherfuckers head cracked like I toss dice |
|
Vinnie taking all your money like a divorced wife |
