Aight...
enough wit tha talkin...

aight look...
this guy's fake-as-fuck, only takes wins by give ups! or faith-and-luck//Keeps
talkin until he gets socked with upper-kuts, makin his face-bend-up//DISCRASED!...get scraped wit words which hurt worse then aches-and-cuts//Yo
you need to wake-on-up...and smelltha rhythm which i let-loose//leaven your
neck-loose, hangin from your shoulders like sex-juice//check-two...
these dope-rhymes, your whole crew wit broke-spines//damaging more
MINDS, then kids who smoke-dimes and snort coke-lines//I provoke-crimes...
with prolific-spit, which quickly-RIP your rhyme-flow//BLAST! lead
through your head, makin your outer mind-show//then kick the center of your
back with force, to make your spine-fold//yo, i block fissions like blind-
folds...and bright-flashes//leaven your back scratch-wit, six hundred and sixty
six mic-slashes//sit back and watch this hype-smash-his...cranium wit sick-tac-
tics//so QUICK!, i'll catch tha cap before tha mothafuckin gat-ticks//smash-his
ribs wit 6 bat-hits, leavin him wit fat-lips//BLACK-hips!, ~and smashed nose, like
his face was a FLAT-TIT!!!!