This guy couldn't sin, with twenty 10's used, for whores-to-score/
Plus the fact is, he suits up, serves out brochures door-to-door/
You're not a threat, no reason for us to worry, hold-precautions/
Got ya like rooms smoked-out when ya buried, closed-in-coffins/
Pissin, shittin in your pants more than toilets, your fears-confirm/
I Open-artists easier than beer, when Colt 45's steel-reserved/
Wanna shine a front, shoot multiple holes in ya two-door-coupe/
Far as title chances, you'll never repeat a 1 thru 9 like sudoku/