Man you just a youngblood with a loss you just a rookie//
tha only blood you look like is the period that comes out your moma's pussy//
Humpty dumpty's putin together lines- "tryin to sew", where ya really "buyin ya flows", cas ya swingin from ropes but still aint "fly'n ah show"/
Rippin ya smile so im "spittlin ya grins", only time hes confortable is when "sittin on pins", an nailin his lines to my knee so they only "hittin my shins"//
Sam's sigs only "signing to fail", a queer god musta been "designing this male", all ya name jokes are played cuz ya lines are "defining whats stale"//
Drop explosive votes cuz "nines the score", I shine on audio AND text like "vinyl chords", 16 men, but 17th's is closest you'll come to "final four"//
Geting rid of this shit like you "before you toss", beat ya before, whats "one more loss?", and like you with the St. Christopher, I "whore your cross"//
Rip ya tonsils, now whos "tryin talk back!?", break this head more then "side-walk cracks", cuz ya missin fresh feeling like a dirty "white socks pack"//
does my land say Atlantis? since u've always doubted my iLLness' main existence//
when u know very well that I am ahead of you in a vast mile of a distance//
I am tha god of complexity while ur being examined as tha continous lyrical calamity//
claiming ur iLL when ur elevation is lackin capacity its no motherfuckin fallicy//
and now u got tha audacity to talk trash when ur tha only one who spits garbage//
u can play soccer wit information banks and u still wouldnt kick knowledge//
Since tha only time u gonna flow wit heat is if u clipped a curling iron on ya penis//
this pathetic knocked-out could pose as Albert Einstein and he still wouldnt b considered a genius...//
you just ah fake rapper you's ah wannabe//
I told yo punk ass not to fuck with killa-T//