This is dedicated to every emcee...
who thought they didn't have to battle to keep their credibility.
My terms terminate your worth with a hunger
for colossal amounts of false gold
like there's termites in my teeth, I floss after
eating through each CD you over sold.
I'm too busy milking your hunnies bare
to care about comparing businesses man,
so buzz off, fuzzy was a bear was as far
as your dopest vocabulary ever spanned.
Your girl demands I kill her pu-tang,
then C.R.E.A.M. on her face like Wu-Tang
because even if you were a bee you
couldn't keep-her deep fangs from hangin
on my stinger wang that's aimed at you
gang-bangers with fake southern slang.
I got the real blue-grass twang, turning
you lame twig and berries into smoothies.
I'll tell your crunk juice carrying fans
to pour it out... cause you're dead, homies.
Hold it, RB doesn't know me but best believe
I've toted everything from sig-fried
to Ozz, Toto is my dawg but no treats
for the rest of you... y'all got frosty paws.
I'm flawless with all this thawed beef
you fiends gnaw on; left picking straws
to see who I slaughter with awe, turning
jaws and 5 mic hype into coleslaw.
Ta-da, magically I'm past the fad of baggy
jeans, but y'all still thrill-riding dirty
in them clean white-T's? I slap pimps with
their own bag of tricks, ya heard me?
That's what I call playing wordy,
verse me and end up listless like Fergie.
Son, In my forties I'll be farther then
all your baby mama's other four fathers,
so don't bother. Conquer rap? You're
just an old punk who's lost his rocker.
All fodder and no cannon, handed you
lit fuses to watch you implode (awkward).
Ding! Punch-line ready. This was a 15
minute easy recipe... like Betty Crocker.
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