I’ll Feed You Mics For Lunch While Your Rhymes Bruising Your Cords//
My Boots Would Merc You The Way Your Camp’s Choosing Your Wars//
Return your punches to your archieve, cuz there either wack or faulty//
Hell... only time you get a vote is if there judging wack ass multies//
Ya brainless, So stop “trying” to be ill usin’ your 5 syllable multis, they sound forced//
Ya using a ghostwriter to pen your lines, that shit’s repetitive like beatin’ a dead horse//
After I win this, you'll have the "tendency" to commit suicide//
Your "words are played", homo, go ask for another dick to ride//
I chop your heart for droppin' 2 bars, I'ma eat them like Twix//
Even if you was with 'Blackstreet', your stabwounds wouldn't 'fix'//
Now feel the cold from within, I curl yer arms 'round your chest//
MER gettin beat is 'being deaf': 'neva heard of that!'//
I'm the tumor in you mothers head, and I'ma murder that//
Bitch I'm on your tail, Sam L. Jackson couldn't "change lanes"//
Any cat here's sayin: bitch you're wack son, plus you're straight lame//