Yo dis no time fo excuses, so many bruises social service callin thinken yo mamma is abusive.
Beat you to death, and open ya flesh, you attemptin to gasp for breath and realiz you aint got nottin left.
But I amda best,call me cashious clay like I’m punchin ya chest,
Instead I’m aimin fo ya head cuz in less than 5 bars yo gonna be dead, witta shirt stained red, I’ma put ya to bed,
Bury ya alive with rhymes that so ill tom hanks couldn’t survive, wit a volley ball and a pack a corona, but I’ma fire uponya wit gats wit more ammo than the arsenal of osama,
And shoot ya while I’m bangin yo mamma, but screw all dis drama

Cuz dis shit a finisher I wont be needin, all deese punches up top leave you internally bleadin couldn’t win unless pac was hurr and u was bitin and feedin

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"Say hello to my lil' friend"