1-2 bar hi-jacKer cipher
 

Fuck a pocket knife, Ill grip a stick of dynamite thats lit, and sit cockpit on your flight//

and if you struggle ill cut your wrists and leave you calling for your mother/

cuz i'm shankin ya box cutta,spittin butta,bowin plains into othas/

dont be scared, no need to studder/
those were the last words before the plane crashed that i muttered/

cuz we straight rude yo
i didn't mean to hit the towers i was aimin for ya studio

my style is swift like MacGuyver, cause Im known to blow up your whole fucking block with a bomb that I made out of a lighter//

planes blown up sent into the twin towers/
debris fallin quick like rain showers

yo i'm in that crew that like to create negative ruckus,
with a 22 in my possesion i come on and stick up yo fuckin public BUS

run up to ya car and lay you flat
took it but had to turn around...ur kid was in the back

i jump in the cock pit and put a gun to the pilots head/
tell him to fly to iraq or he's as good as dead

yo its like this u the jack and i'm the jacker,
i'm a take yo shit i couldnt less if u was black or a cracker or a mexican jelly packer

got on a plane in NYC we were still urban/
crazy mutha i had a bomb in my turban

turban or even niccas dat don't seem urban//
gone walk away wit a wound from a box cutter,2 5ths and sayin my lifes hurtin

saw u drive by in ur bentley and i shot out the tyres/
a couple of good hits is all it requires

yo mutha fuckaz keep in mind this is the "HI-JACKIN CYPHER",
give mo yo cash bitch cuse u soaked in kerosene and i aint afraid to spark my lighter