here i go-

a yo itz bK a lyrical serial killer, streetz rhymez are sweet and simple like vanilla/
i rhyme in tweleve dialects and put tant amount of shots into streetz neck/
why you call yourself streetz anway you soft, your more like carpetz/
you use lines over and over recycling them like lyrical garbage/
if your mouth was a gun it wouldn't even spark shit/
how could a gun spit if it don't have any ammo, you better off hittin' niggaz in tha head wit tha handle/
while i stay wit a arsenal with enough heat to light up the whithouse like a candle
erase whole contries of a map, just for stacks/
i'll make you lay ya back right onto ya technical name, i concealed all the evidence so only way the cops could catch me is in a picture frame/
little nigga this is no game you walkin on a fine line, my name is wut it is bcuz i walk on tha intercontinental dateline so i could be in two places at tha same time/
and Renlaunched has warned for tha lastime post some more dumb shit and you will be fined/
so your challenge embarked me on tha mission physicallyto destroying you and ya fam
and lyrically i am statiscally equal to no otha man, but go to far and i will gun you down right were you stand/
so while i rise as a warrior straight through tha ranks you in a cell for having no gun but tried to rob a bank/
but tha teller knew your mouth is like a gun with no bullets you spit blanks/