BlackHawk Down.

16.... Maybe.



...:::NoW AbOuT YoUr WaCkNeSs:::...

You throw Socks smaller than happy baby feet, You're way too weak
So pray to see, Ya now calling me out, Cuz writing ya verse takes a week
My urge to prey, With the words I crave, Allows me to devour a Herb-A-Day
With a murderous spray, I've Fucked-Ya-Thoughts.. Now ya words Sound Gay
A round raped, Treacherously infect ya systemry even like an Out Break
About-Face, As niggaz Hit This Pastry so much, Think I'm eating a Pound-Cake
But see, You continue to ensinue, That ya thin crew is Fit for my menu
But when I get in you, Your Lines-Are-Folded, Like Fat Bitches In Swimsuits
So I peep it, Your name is defined plain that you remain on some freak shit
What's beneath him? Behind all his Threads is really... Victoria's Secret
So he'll watch me spit, First.. To reconstruct his verse he wrote a week ago
He's a hoe, Dropping so many Fillers, This nigga is just Digging-A-Deeper-Hole
In a sleeper-hold, Flacid like pastics, Bend your body like gymnastics
Get ya ass kicked, Cuz you've got more Torn-Raps, Than empty Easter Baskets
And that's drastic, But for you it's facts bitch, You need some battle practice
Cuz your wackness, Has your trash scripts Pointless... Like Suicidal Cactus



Go finish you verse and drop it bitch.