yo here we go

my rhymes gon' be an air raid, when i spray clips that'll hit ya back bone/
inflict pain in ya torso, rip ya flesh, til ya sounds change from grunts to soft moans/
my lines like hard stones, stick a metaphor in ya back, so it short-circuits ya hormones/
turn from straight to fagget, then watch you and ya boy's groan/
i ain't kiddin wit you i spit lyrical projectiles, that scope out whack mc's from millions of miles/
jump over ya like darius, then clip ya brainwaves, how the fuck u gon' say i ain't got style/
use a pen n run wild, the ink'll put me on trial, murdered you with words gon' be put on my file/
this ain't no 8 mile, so ya actin ain't needed, put ya shit back in the right pile/
ya might live, prolly not tho cause ima start spittin a lil g thang/
kill ya twice over, then use the 9 to kill ya mang/
ya brain, ain't have the same power to maintain a new frame of mind/
ima lyrical genious who puts together similies, with great ease, n im a lil ahead of my time/
rewind back to the beginnin so i can un-"clot" the "blood" i left wit my clip/
i've taken out the back bone, n torso, so next im shootin straight at ya hip/

good looks
one.