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New to RB
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IP:
Ayo.
The only thing about you that's bouncin' dawg, are your cheques.
You winnin' this is a distant dream, like da last time you had sex.
I'ma make you eat and fuckin' choke on your song's text.
A reflex... reaction to your shit. Gettin' me vexed.
You got all the time you need to pick the words you're gonna use.
Still you'll make this shit like 8-ball, you'll be missin' all your cues,
You're gonna lose, don't snooze, lyrically I will abuse,
I have issues with makin' bitches outta the fuckin' likes of you.
I'ma burn so hot I'll be congeling you're fuckin' flow.
You'll be askin' yourself later, "Where'd my punchlines go?"
I'm gonna make this shit a white-out, sixteen inches of fuckin' snow.
Ghetto cripple, you're out to lunch if you even think that you'll K.O.
I'ma a slice you up and send you home in multiple packages.
Just for fun I'll lable each one with a fresh insulting adjective.
Here's your severed hand wrapped up in bloody bandages.
You can't grip the mic now! You see my fuckin' happiness?
I'll let you get to spittin' now, sit back and watch you blurt it
and stumble through each and every bar like you're uncertain.
Look at you. Steppin' up to the mic like it's worth it.
Like Street Fighter 2, I'm gonna end this bitch Perfect.
Gl. Pz.
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