My bullets are like poems they speak with alliteration/
Leavin ur crew in more suits than tha islamic nation/
Hot off tha streetz of Atl, home of tha braves/
Put a gun 2 a hater's head and tell him i aint playin games/
Ur hear a boom, then ask what's happenin like ying yang/
12 gauge hit ur dome, leaving u covered in red like game/
I roll wit more young gunz than tha rocafella team/
Haters think they on a period when they see infa-red beams/
Im a 5 star general, subliminal, criminal/
Roll thru ur hood, stomp u out, and then ask What Now!/
Haters hate me now, I dont care buck if u want/
And they find out why they call tha dance tha A-Town stomp/
U step 2 tha young one wit ur chest all out/
Then u mess around and get a tech 9 in ur mouth/
Dont wanna sound cocky, but im tha boss of bosses/
u couldn't win against me, like Al Sharpton runnin 4 presidental office/

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[COLOR=DarkGreen]Tha 617 King