YUP!
IM BACK AT IT AGAIN....

When you see the mac’s eighty clips attack navy ships...
You crack-babies contract rabies and die in the blast radius...
It’s the Latin atheist that’ll leave grass fading quick...
And have your Marsh a bloody mess on some stab Brady shit...
I’m like Stan.. Shady.. Em in some crack 80’s Tims...
Ready to yack baby ribs while I grab Haley.. Kim...
Start back paying.. kid.. cause Ransum in fact is the best...
So without hurtin’ your pride.. two things are certain in life - taxes and Death...
Try askin’ Macbeth.. as you die on an African crest...
Piled on top of corpses.. giving new meaning to back in the flesh...
Leave you in a patch in the West.. buried with your stash to digest...
On some Pirates Of The Carribean shit.. a whole lot of cash in your chest...
Read the caption and text.. I’ll style on you like fashion and dress...
Giving MILF’s butterflies.. I call it the Ashton effect...
I’m hot.. the matches are kept for the candles in bed...
While your assholes get wet when there’s a phallus erect...
You faggots get swept when I damage your set...
I’ll knock the planet off it’s axis and I don’t even have to connect...
You’re just a fan we regret.. and you’ll be standin correct...
I suggest you abandon the mansion when I land on the jet...
Know your clan is impressed that I’m prolly hardest...
So when you’re body’s darkened..
your life’ll prove to be a bigger bust than Dolly Parton’s...
I’m just a jolly Spartan with an oddly hardened godly jargon...
With forty legs and warrior-bred from Brolly’s garden...
Fucking doggie with your mommy on her motley carpet...
After crafting Jesus’ cross..
While you ain’t even a boss.. just Gotti’s sargeant...
When the shotty’s sparkin.. my artillery’s dentin til you’re feeling like wincin...
You won’t beat me in votes in the long run like your name was Hilary Clinton...
Your chicks are like wildebeest-kittens with the will be striken...
While I’m like Gaston.. straight-up.. “KILL THE BEAST” bitches...
And don’t think I won’t ring your Belle with the phone until.. son...
Your nose when healed up makes you resemble Owen Wilson...
In texin.. dude’s manic... Sacrificin Texas Jews.. eatin a breakfast food sandwich...
So when I slit their necks in two..
.. their breath ensues even before the exit wounds vanish...
The weapon’s shoot as clips stop the breathin inside...
If Pac could speak on the mic..
He’d remind us.. music takes us places like Zelda: Ocarina Of Time...
You just got to see in your mind.. Hip Hop’s a tree you can climb...
Before your number’s up.. runner-up in the lottery of demise...
But you still got a reason to rhyme.. a shot to be what you like...
So I suggest you take it.. before the prophecy of this life...

GOOD-NIGHT...