.Dear Bash (Holla At Ya Boy).
 

(Dedicated to Bash… this nigga’s peeps will up me, and give me props on my shit. This nigga stays hatin’ on me though. Sayin’, whenever I beef with him in Open Mic, he’ll respond. So where you at dunny? I’m waitin’…)

I never carry a knife player, I carry a fuckin’ cactus//
And you’re bound to get poked like some hoe on a mattress//
Fuckin’ believe me when I tell ya Bash, I run with axes//
You’re fixin’ to get burnt quick, like a hundred matches//
Ya see, my flow is fantastic, make ya neck strectch like elastic//
I win best scene at the grammys, ‘cuz i’m so dramatic//
Don’t act like you’re gangsta, i’ve seen more woman that’re hard//
Wannabe’s gonna get bit if he keeps swimmin’ with sharks//
This fuckin’ fish is weak, the 9 darkens ya gills//
Running at Lord E boy, you need to sharpen your skills//
On the street they call me shortstop, i’m always throwin’ first//
Blessed with toxic lungs, so I just roll with the curse//
Like Halloween, ya crew gets fuckin’ smashed like pumpkins//
My heater is a heartbreaker, ‘cuz it’s always dumping//
I’m best known to rob convenience stores so confidentally//
I never hurry up and buy, pop the clerk immediately//
Is y’all listening to this, damn my flows is something//
Give brain to the gat, when the pistol blows, that’s how you know I’m comin’//
You’re on the t.v.? You best leave ya picture glued the set//
I got a tech named landlord, that you owe two months rent//
6 o'clock news, someone got rolled, two clips in the van//
I'll leave this bitches ass everywhere, like the shit hit the fan//