Ai yo ya just lame....

....ya weak son//
I spit words that make ya geeks run//
who needs fun,I'm all about money,and ure cheap son//
and the way u spit some asscheaks//
you make me wanna blast 3 shots from the black heat,and hop in a taxi//
battle me on RB,homey and run like trackmeet//
actually catastophy is what I'm causin//
see me in the pimped out navi,still flossin//
I still deal wit haters often,you probably pissin the bed//
I wont kill u , you'll end up missin instead//
sick and misled,spittin lead an twistin ya head//
leave ya dead drop ya in that river//
You see me quiver, nah, i jus' stand an deliver//
So stick ta eatin haggis an wearin ya kilts//
Cos my ryhmes are 8ft an yours ave fallen off their stilts//

Och Eye it's magic innit

-Out-