It's a time for martyrs now, as the rap game is in a crisis.
Record sales continue to decline, record labels are merging, and cats got confused what's
real hip -hop.
We got the real ass bitters in the game of rap, all you dudes say you nice, but you niggas
is wack.
Where my lyricists at?
Where my lyricists at?
Where the fuck you niggas at?
Where my lyricists at?
I could carry the weight of Pum, resurrect Big L's lungs and jack every single beat
that jam.
Master J's fun, I'm the lyrical son of Rakim, the Jabba, Bernard Hopkins, the voice in Big
and Pac, overlooked by Johnny Cochran, the KRS -One doctor, and the monster in these niggas
that be posturing.
I'm robbing them in the whip, the girlfriend driving them, and I'm butter without the margarine,
the crack without the sizzle, the rain without the drizzle, the hammer without the chisel,
the baller without the dribble, the scribble, scrabble, the writer's block, I bibble babble.
Had to split and flip to rip the chains and shackles, had to fight and grapple and tackle
the rotten apple.
I traveled from Camden and met the drama king at the tabernacle, gave me the juice like
a Snapple, ran with it like the Olympics, encrypting my signature on templates for the
cake like Griffiths.
Moving limits, I am legend, I could cure the Armageddon, lyrical prophet of hip -hop heavens,
raised by Latin Florida Evans.
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap, all you dudes say you nice, but you
niggas is wack.
Where my lyricists at?
Where my lyricists at?
Where the fuck you niggas at?
Where my lyricists at?
No lyrical content, just typical nonsense, my mental too complex to listen to garbage.
Every lyric outpawed breath, he gripping the large tech and killing you, God bless, that
s**t is too far -fetched.
Give it, you are threat, then live it, don't talk mess.
Niggas in projects ain't feeling you more or less, this hitting your heart, yes, you
miserable, all stress, get rid of you, y 'all sex, finish your squad next.
Pitiful process, when spirits depart flesh, we rip through your small chest with critical
objects.
Nigga, you on test, the general confess, I injure you, fraud's best in criminal contests.
No killer, you harmless, my birth involved death, umbilical cord wrecked my little unborn
neck.
Before I get all dressed in greens in the press and walk through the yard, vex, I'd
rather graveyard rest.
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap, all you dudes say you nice, but you
niggas is wack.
Where my lyricists at?
Where my lyricists at?
Where the fuck you niggas at?
Where my lyricists at?
My niggas, muertos, mijetes, it's Puerto Rican.
I put the plunger to your windpipe and leave your water leaking, throw to those stiff old
skin.
Telemadre liento, Sitarra del Cairo, I kill you tomorrow, playing with pet pools like
I ain't the rap truth.
If I kill him in that booth, you doubt it, go ask Booth.
Slay gave me the dice, I hit him with a deuce, they started laughing, but man, it's the deuce
that killed Bruce.
The most original, lyrical, criminal, leave you in critical, torture and ridicule these
pitiful rappers.
I'm cynical with the flow that's enormous, my swagger at stage perform at the cornice.
I sold the faunus, they don us, trying to extort us, the go -guy, I drop the water, supporter
of crossing borders.
Papa blessed me with orders, I never moved like a tortoise, I'd rather move like a Testerosa,
eat like I'm in Ponderosa.
2008 kinds of sauce, I'm shitting on Arnie's shoulders.
We got the real ass spinners in the game of rap, all you dudes say you nice, but you
niggas is wack.
Where my lyricists at?
Where my lyricists at?
Where the fuck you niggas at?
Where my lyricists at?
Alright!
