Grab the mic spiting flaming boulders son/
wit a sick cold grip style/
Rapid-fire convulsions of deadly lyrics are hostile/
wit verbal combat tactics that’s even worse/
to telepathically rip the spiritual/
run up in the church, step in the pull pit fully equip/
speaking the lyrical and spiting fire at my rivals/
hold my mic and notebook like a cross and bible/
while the fake get decapitated, and the enemy shot down on sight/
I crave lyrics into cement, wit ink pouring like semen/
Freestyling on rhyme reaction and blessing the mic/
wit focused forouches words the lyrical beast recite/
formed by my killa instinct to slay emcee and rip up a page/
I spit wit natural born rage and speak in flames/
plus my tecks precise wit aim, blowing all opposing niggez out the frame/
cause my styles orthodox, to kill any emcee who even opens his mouth and prepares to talk/
rappers dare to spit and get hit wit more bars than fort knocks/



yo you thought it was over/
trust me son you mistaking/
I use heat as a device of communication/
and keep my words blazing/
all emcees I dare you to put your rhyme lines on the line/
and I’ll slay your best written shit/
wit an effortless freestyle/
iam far beyond the norm, next level of hostile/
Grabbing the mic and going to war/



take soul control of the universe wit words/
and explode the masses/
for any emcee who chose to be a contestant/
I’ll mic-murder his mind/
slay him and lay him on the level/
wit a bloody notebook inside a steel casket/

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