Oh my god its that bitch young mix back with his bag of trix//
Talk about skill? your under by 7-3, man you make me sick//
You're like the midgit of basket ball, the T-rex of boxin drinkin toxins//
The transexual of prostitution drawn to the conclusion your skill is binned//
I leave you in my dust an watch your style turn to rust as I clutch//
The mic in my hand, I'm the paper you're the sand glued to my touch//
Admit you can't get enough of me cos you sit an feel my rush//
But you mean nothin to me, If style were Ice, you'd be black slush//

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I couldn't resist any longer (Thanks for the feedback lol)