here we go.

This kid couldn’t drop (w)raps if it was his birthday//
I got him more “shook” than Muhammad Ali during an earthquake//
So he made the battle callout and asked me to spit-first//
Coz he knows that like Cheech and Chong sharing, I “split-herbs”//
You don’t even hope-to-win this faggot aint “dope”, but I’m still “smokin”-him//
This fool couldn’t blow up if he was in a furnace soaked-in-gin//
You couldn’t make the crowd “throw up their hands” in you “dropped-the-ceiling”//
My “shots”-aren’t-healing ones giving you “nerves” like you lost-all-feeling//*
Claim to be a Killah, but you don’t “bare arms”-like-geriatrics-with-tattoos//
While you’re in trouble coz I’ve got no qualms-to-bury-faggots-and-wack-crews//
You’re a “desperate dickhead”, so any little bitch could “blow-your-mind”//
Like you’re the Giants and I’m the Patriots, you’re loss is no-surprise//
I’m “spitting flames”, so it leaves you in crisps, my tongue burnt and my mouth-sore//
My style’s-raw, your “punches” are never “right” like you’re a southpaw//**

*nerves give you feeling, so like, im giving him nerves coz he’s lost his/lost his nerve.
**southpaws are left-handed boxers.