FRONTLINE WARLORDS

VERSE 1:

Stress is building up, anxiety's in my vocal chords,

but I'm okay, I know that I'm a frontline overlord,

I'm a lightning-fast killer whose blades strike with no remorse,

I jumped a skittish Asian grocery man when he closed the store,

this is what I wrote it for, the mixtape I recorded for,

a mixture of a bunch of conscious hip-hop and horrorcore,

I only know the underground is filled with all the warring lords,

a narrow right of passage is your lyrics, quite a corridor,

imagery, I paint pictures, stay sicker, I tore this raw,

vivid detailed scriptures about purple rain on orange floors,

maybe I'm on acid, living in the 'hood with poorest whores,

if another teenager whines about doing boring chores,

I'll tear my fucking hear out, rip it up, and then store it or,

I'll be tapping both ways like a salesman goin' door to door,

you in my neighborhood they'd drive-by for steppin' on turf,

that's why my words are like escape to a Heaven on Earth,

here is how I write my songs, start with 'cid, coke, and Onyx,

blast the music up real loud, weed, beer, smokin' chronic,

then you'll see how it connects, one time I spoke Ebonics,

why? I poured a lot of vodka, thought of drama, soaked in tonic,

so ironic how they call me cracker, I could crack 'em back,

if I packed a Mac, my shack is jacked, don't got a 'Lac or 'Ac,

spread heat like the Shaq Attack, nigga that's my punchline,

I use it during fun times, when serious I'll crunch rhymes,

nail you to your fuckin' floorboard, razor-sharp raw swords,

smash into your four-by-four door Ford in a Honda Accord,

but, I ain't Slim Shady, I'm Tupac mixed with Jay and them,

the rest who splatter on the canvas, wished it '98 again,

they would spit it raw, hack it up like they saved up phlegm,

when motherfuckers had beef in stride but I came and went,

I'm stashin' whack rappers in mattresses under floorboards,

I shackled them and packed I'm in tightly, 'cuz we're warlords