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07-19-02, 04:54 PM | #1 | |
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•bottle of pills•
IP:
the truth is that everything that's not a dream is useless/
to me, mixing feelings bringing abusive sprees to public ease/ hating the rhyme state stating that a rapper is the thing to be/ making the normally normal supporting abnormal again, "oh no he's gotten outta bed"/ no need to get formal, but let me outta my pen/ creating my world out of bits of yours is my chore, don't fight it/ it makes me more cold to the core, so learn this, your life ain't how you type it/ i wanna OD on prozac and valium then maybe i wouldn't rap like this/ i wouldn't act like shit in public, pass the pills and water, let's get off the subject/ never again to speak of it, make life a $4.20 an hour job and not love it/ whoever beefs can take their shit and shove it back to its origin/ so tank'em, go find some foreign men and yank'em sore again/ and again till you can't handle it/ then come see me for a platinum fist/ bitch, shut up, you can go ahead and babble shit, eat rhymes? you're ass is still anorexic/ with a bottle of pills i'm on the highest level with bottom skills/ droppin' ill like stoppin' jack from fucking jill/ plausible still? the steel killin' from the mic's iron grill/ the stage my cage, "Do Not Touch", i don't bite but i will/ i'm the professor, a mad agressor with less shit accepted under this pressure/ writing "dear sally letters" with "fuck you slut" as the header/ heading headless killing rappers who knew better/ not to try and out flow this skull with as many bones that i tote/ or up show my boat in as much spit that i've spoke/ or provoke my soul to actually busting the yoke.../ of my eggheadedness, but i know i'ma be regrettin' this.../ fuck you illrhymephonetic, fuck you tank'em, fuck you whitepac, don't edit shit/ but to my hate, i gotta give it to sleepers, they credit this/ and to the ill, my true family, L.L.I. the rhyme edifice/ with a bottle of pills i'm on the highest level with bottom skills/ droppin' ill like stoppin' jack from fucking jill/ plausible still? the steel killin' from the mic's iron grill/ the stage my cage, "Do Not Touch", i don't bite but i will/(echos into silent popping of the 12") this better not touch the 2nd page peace signed, ~professor |
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