Hey yo, I got a idea, let's all get drunk and pop pills//
And breakdance with a mic, doing windmills//
Standing still is not a option bitch if you got skills//
Rapping now-a-days is all about honor and will//
Not a icy chain or an icy grill, shit like that can get you killed//
Underground in a field, just for feeling brave//
If this rap shit don't work, i'll cock and spray//
Rob a bank, or bake cakes, but...//
The outcome's all the same, answer by a number name//
Behind bars, rockin' a set of hand chains//
Things won't change, unless you aim for the ceiling//
Get your eyes off the floor, and rise higher than buildings//
People mimic my style, not my personal image//
I don't blame 'em, what other style out there, is fucking wit me...?//
Bobby and Whitney, Eminem and 50?//
I spit sick, when I contaminate and quarantine ya city//
No remorse, so of course, war ain't got no pity//
Rich or poor, I take you hostage and hold you for ransom//
You got 24 hours to come up with the dough for my mansion//
Or face my temper tantrum, more action than Fear Factor//
It's heart attacking, sci-fi, with scare tactics//
Niggas faces gettin' made up, and they shipped off in caskets//