I leave mics torn, that’s my ticket to wealth
got so many lyrics, my book of rhymes don’t fit on the shelf
I’m sick of myself…… I ain’t laughing either,
son I got a rapping fever that conflicts with my health
Any union that’s assuming they’re hotter, I’m refusing to honor
pursuing the drama, by moving like a crew of piranhas
Leaving mind states consuming the trauma…….
after, bodies I’m bruising after using as a human pinyota
To beat me, you won’t have ya hope fulfilled
only ‘close calls’ you’ll see will fall under ya local bill
So don’t attempt to show ya skills, my flow is ill
I’d shove electric tools in ya brain just so you ‘know the drill’
So just chill, hope you wrote ya will, cuz I’m in a mode to kill
leaving microphones steaming like a smoking grill
throughout urban districts….
my verbal sickness got rappers ‘scared to talk’ like a murder witness
links
http://www.rapbattles.com/forum/showthread.php?t=295798
http://www.rapbattles.com/forum/showthread.php?t=294961
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peace