Daily, I watch some punks claim to be tight//
Being cautious, I get nauseous off the shit you write//
Bitch, I pen lyrics in my sleep//
Flowin’ accapella; I don’t need a beat//
Tossin’ change at your broke ass on the street//
You come here to compete//
But your style is weak//
So I’ve come to save the game//
As well as its name//
It’s called freestyle, motherfucker//
Now can you maintain?//
I don’t question the origin of your words//
But the capacity of your mind comes in third//
Behind your talent and your game//
It’s all the same//
Like coke, you’ve got to taste my originality//
So study your rhymes and take your time//
Before you shout back at me//