I'm right on you//Lyrically keep it tight for you//I switch to plan b, if the plot foils//Fuck the hoes, gimme dough and mo' fame//Spit the flow till I blow like cole-trane//Y'all know, names Vendetta//Those beats with the keyboard sounds, irk my nerves//Any battle I entered never got served//If I should die tonight these be my last words//DaTruth too near me to hear me, cross-eyed to see clearly//Side winding like a snake and yet you try to steer me//Veer me into oncoming traffic, hold up, dearie//DaTruth looking kind of leery, I'm trying to stay cheery//While you're tired and weary, unable to stay stable//Unable to keep afloat, unable to rock a note//So you bring a good friend down by the throat//And most of y'all bite on anything like a goat//Let me freak the funk/Vendetta is the punk that talk more junk than Sanford sells//I jet propel at a rate that complice DaTruth's mental state//as I invade his masquerade//he couldn't fade with a clipper blade//10 years in the trade is not enough, he can't cut it//I let DaTruth take a swing, and you bunted//for an easy out, I leave DaTruth with doubt of exceeding//