Aight, this one is at Boston Lyricist

Yous a sick bitch, wantin to be my dad and me your son?
Aight, Ill talk about your bitches. Shit, my bad, you aint never had one
Flippin up for Boston, you proud of yourself little man?
Ive seen better emcess come out of a Harvard library after a meetin with the Klan
You gettin beat by a rookie, man how does that feel?
Im gettin some experience but youre gettin fucked in this deal
You wanna skeet on some homework? You must've had some fucked up teachers
You mustve been at the football games gettin it up the ass with em under the bleachers
You think youre James Bond, well I guess its good to dream
That dude dont even rhyme, so wantin to be him is a stretch for you
My rhymes are too complex for you
I didnt want to have to this to you
But you tryin to rhyme is like ice-skatin uphill
Your rhymes are about as hard as a poem by Lauren Hill
Hope youve had enough, now dont break down and cry
You'll never be able to step to me and its up to you to find out why