first off ur bitch ass talks more than new yorkers after the 9/11 attack//
i think its time i rip ur spine out thru ur mouth so u can't talk back//
your pushing your luck like knocking a leprechaun off a skyscraper//
Bitch your punches wouldn't rough me up if you delivered them on sandpaper//
Your chances of winng are none, like playin russian roulette with a fully loaded clip//
you rhyme with whack shit and get your lip split by lyrical backflips//
You bitch: spendin all your time on the internet,//
cause ya dicks so small when you fuck a girl she always say "did you enter-yet?"//
Ill force u to eat your own lungs so you swallow your last breath//
like psychic suicide victims i'll make u witness your own death//
i'll land that death blowing punch like giving head to a corpse//
you couldn't even get a hard sentence if you battled me from a district court//
Mr. Dick suckin fagot yet no talent speaking "Rap Is My Art"//
now he struts aournd in baggy clothes that he copped from K-mart //