Man it’s funny how many wanna-be’s exist/
Eminem? damn dog, you must be ‘on a trip’/
I’ll take away ya ‘dreams’ as if I was a ‘catcher’/
And on ya way out leave u with a ‘one finger gesture’/
I’m a lyrical ‘molester’, raping more amateurs than ‘R. Kelly’/
You hanging around with more ‘meat’ then a butcher in a ‘deli’/
I’ll snatch ya numbers put ‘em on the ‘end of my name’/ “Tact-96200”
as a reminder cuz ‘you shouldn’t have fuked with my game’/
my shit leaves u ‘stupid’, ‘fuked up up in the head’/
ya rhymes start soundin like what ‘Anna Nicole said’/
I leave you deathfully ill, wishin you never had even started/
U could compare me to ‘moses’, the way I leave you ‘parted’,
In ‘pieces’ bitch, like ‘recees’ bitch/
the impact ‘folds you in half’ leave you with ‘creases’ bitch/

I’ll ‘pants ya ass so fast’, you’ll know you got ya ‘ass kicked’/
You ‘think’ you got some skill? You must be on some ‘acid’/
And I’ll deliver this fukin verse in a ‘nice lookin’ basket/
After you read it’ll look good next to your ‘nice lookin’ casket/

Don’t fukin puss out. I’ll be holdin to the deadline like the last playa that missed it.