I'll beat you close to death and leave you like a vegetable/
Your wins are like your sexuality...that shit is Questionable//
If ya look deep into my heart you'll see That the hood-spits-Rare/
I'll treat ya face like hollywood cement & leave my footprints-there//
Bitchass Bitch, P’s claimin that record when this kid is a mess/
cause I'm slammin your back leavin spinal imprints on ya chest//
With pigments~ruptured, I slit~n~cut~ya with twisted~thunder//
And leave ya bones in fragments...like ya sentence~structure//
Fucker! This Fools whack enough to steal "Will Smith's" rhyme~schemes/
He's guilty!...Clumsy fuck left "Fresh Prints" at the crime~scene//
Lyrical hygiene is what keeps lines clean...my styles~too~sick/
you cant open a can of whoop-ass anyway, it has child~proof~lids//
”Don’t worry im not elite”…. Im just a thirteen year old child”/
“So please Mr. Headwrecka, make your verse lyrically mild”//
P’ thinkin he's ill? Get a flu shot faggot, fakin will get you knocked/
And right after this battle you’ll be doin collaborations with Tupac//