"SPITTIN"

“WARM UP”
He can’t style my talent, never mind the darkness of me//
My words are as brutal as a bullet, IL fire them out for free//

“SPITTIN’”
Backing up my index of Insults, I will start with your Style//
Your punchlines are Pitiful, While Mine Are Mobile//
Approaching into my pocket, My Knife is surpassingly peaked//
IL obtain this mother fucker, IL use it to subtract your teeth//
IL demolish on your carcass while you lay in the soil//
IL handle you like a blunt, IL mask you in Tin Foil//
I’m on my Tenth Line and I’m still rhyming strong//
I can distinguish you sat lonesome, Like at your senior prom//
I know its only 12 Bars, Il add one more terminal line//
Go clutch your Spell-check, Make it thoughtful this time//

“GOODLUCK”