Bars=black, Bullets=red

Verbal ryhthem presicisly in tuned with the beat/
Full clip jammed inide of a empty gun/
Awating for the perfect time just to speak/
I can't wait to see this nigga,he bet not run/
My time come,as soon as the music breaks/
I caught this busta,begging is way too late/
I spit a few bars,about 6 or 7/
Another nigga who family say he went to heaven/
The chorus comes,this is what makes or breaks a song/
The hooks come with their flamers on/
I spit a few more bars,like that in a snappy/
I bust at the cops feeling real trigger happy/
The beat skips,this messes up my flow/
I ran out of bars I can't spit no mo'/
Then I drop the mic to the floor/
The murderer,is breathing no more/