Y'all cats fucking stupid, thinking its all good like Mac Miller./ Its not. Its dead. Needing a med to come back like Thriller.
At this rate, no one living to shoot the only Killer / Running around in a robe, straight to the plot, no filler.
So all of y'all need to understand that if there's no enemy on the mike, there's no competition / and as much as I like to aim and shoot and pull a Loso, with no one, I ain't got me no mission
Which is why I got my fingers on this keyboard, pain in my heart, my love is dying and not coming back with no petition / cause I need cats to come to the slaughter of their own volition.
I am Hip-Hops own Wesley Wilson, personification of Death, the murda definition / this is me going insane on your flow, destroying you as slavery with abolition
F*ck a punchline, we don't need any of ya Tunachi hea, I'd rather eat some bass and not suffer from that Hip-Hop Malnutrition./ But you ain't gon' worry about that, you're barely alive, so say bye to ya lady playa, say be to your medic, say bye to your physician,/ cause the only thing that someone as lame as you gon' see is a mortician./
Now lets rap this up, I'm tired. You have no ambition, and if you did, you'd only be at my feet. So lets transition this edition of the thread into a fully fledged rendition of me on my demolition of all you fake magician getting beat into submission getting little to no props or recognition, cause honestly you don't deserve it with all of this "hoe, flow, bro" repetition, bro.
Still, I'm a mathematician with this art, easily taking care of this exhibition, so when it comes to our juxtaposition, all that can be seen is your imminent decomposition and subsequent exposition as a acquisition notch on my belt.
@CozyDaPrynce said:
the only reason you rap tighter than a mummy // I met your mother, and left a virus in her tummy // cold, like a cooler with some ice in it // your rap wont be good unless I'm the one who's writin it //
Liked these ones, cracked a smile on my face.
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