Untitled Song

I quit dissing, but I guess it's back to war,

Battle skills extraordinaire, let me show you to the door,

I guess holdin down the underground ain't shit to show no more,

Spitting superstar bars, while you're still living at home,

Momma bought the studio, the one you use to spit,

I record everything at home, and still I kill you at this shit

You got the bands, but not the heart, you need to take some time to sit

And listen to the rawest cracker to jump up on the mic and rip,

R.I.P to this industry, this faggot is the killer,

All you care about is bread, but the baker's in the chiller,

Iced the dude with all my coldest flows, and homie, you're the next,

I thought I told you once before, hate me but bitch you shall respect.

 

I'm dropping all the sickest bars on you, I'm sorry if you puke,

Rest in peace to all your rawest flows, they just couldn't make it through

The work my skills alone hath given thee, my man you're my disciple

But you're learning from my music instead of your mama's bible.

I never wanted to be rivals, this beef is rather tribal.

I've seen more savage opponents at my sister's dance recital.

You're a carbon copy spitter, me, I'm all originalle,

So think ahead before you decide dissing me is easy, pal.