Whats wit dis guy called Hogan//
He cant spit for shit, sounds like his choking//
And hopin that his loakin, for tight rhymes cuz his brokin//
His rhymes sound like flat lines cuz he’s putting his hands in the air totin//
But b for real, when I drop dis hot spot//
I’ll tell u that ill have more wrestling maneuvers that Hogans “leg drop”//
you talk-so-elite about being the king-of-“flow”, but i walk-to-a-beat/
you’re showed no respect like a dirty “ho”-my name’s chalked-on-the-street/
i’ll hook you up with some “beats” though-i’ll rip him from head-to-toe/
i’m a dog that’s murdering you in this “cats-game” of tic-tac-toe//
fake bitch is a cocky-actress, but my words are real punches with extra flare/
i grill my enemies, then kill by any-means...”Hogans” cooked, but any “beef” is rare/
even if this mother fucker copied and pasted, he couldn’t match-this/
i’ma put more wholes in his ass, so he can expand his business/
And da only fantasy i have is u given me head//
So instead u drop dead, cuz u was bein fed lead//
Oh and ur flow IS nasty just like a dirty tampon//
Like an envelope packed wit anthrax, thats y yo hands are gone//
and you couldn't write good 'spits' if Monica Lewinsky was yur Pen Pal/
All da shit u say is just fowl and now i realize y u cant spit cuz u got a dick in you mouth//