Your ma fucked up when she had u, she should've had an abortion/
Cuz' your raps is wack, much less, their outta proportion/
I drop so many golden tracks, they call me a hitman/
But everything you've ever written belongs in the trashcan/
I leave wannabe MC's, rollin down da street, in lyrical hearses/
Wishing he could reimberse this, digging for spare verses/
You aint tainted, your raps are fading, so get out of entertainment/
Your shit makes no sense like a porno that's PG-rated/
If tightness is a disease, then my lines are diagnosed/
Face it, give up, or quit, you can't come close to EASTCOAST!