You couldn’t steal my thunder if you was a kleptomanic weatherman/
My punches at home on the mic your punches like Mikes home they Never land/ Want peace with this contender man think you Inspector Gadget the way you extend your hand/ I shed light nightly wanna fight me I suggest you lightly tread I'm projecting dread / My punches aimed high make you dead Chalk Clarox put a condom on his face to try n protect his head/ I'm fed up your rhymes aren’t fire shit they wouldn’t even spark if you wrote them with flint/ You right no one likes you but you must of used up your life lines cause you cant take a hint/Wanna be hot? to hell I’ll send you, you aint gonna be shit aint gonna sell out no venue/