My, gift to speak is weak...but my pen is on point
Ghost writer master mind...put my pen on a point
Driven by my madness...Speak of what I Posess
I'll break a sword across your face
To leave your tongue in a mess...
Weak Bastards wipe... as Fiend Cowards Gripe
Like the souls of 9/11... In the Twin Tower Peaks
I have the Gutter of Mac Dre... and the Soul of Gillispie
But I smoke away my Talent
In the Home of a Century...
My past is tainted...My Future's unknown
My insight see's only Vegeance...In the Heart of the Chrome
I see Despair and anger...without a way home
Why my niggas creep
When their better to Roam...
I lead others to Believe...That my skills are supreme
Am I talking to shit...? Thats for you to believe
Don't get slumped by an 80...And face death in Degrees
And have your soul swimming free
The Emacipation of 1863