Tie your 'fists to cement', so you can come with some 'hard hit
punches'/
I smell victory cuz the only 'sure'-thing under ya arms is 'crutches'/
Makin more blunders than retarded stuntmen, my 'drunken-style' leaves you sober, face down/
cant handle 'daps', arm fall'n off from me giving you this 'pound'/
you found the path of death, I shatter text with claws wrapped around this bastard's neck/
U must be a 'square', u and the winners circle are not congruent/
heres my 2 cents, you must be willing to die with your mind cluttered/
Work on text design fucker then develop some rhyme structure/

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