You looking in the mouth of madness, skilled out since I had this
I'm talking bout nothing but pure D badness
My acceleration is compatible to a bima
My pockets looking greener, from the funky cold medina
Don't tell me bout the things that you done did cause I done did it
Don't tell me bout the skins that you done hit, cause I done hit it
And once I rock these, with a style that's cock deis
Good God, I get the crowd together like knock knees
Now, I don't act hard, I just mack hard
Baggin' video looking honeys with the big back yard
Yes lord, girls I'm gamin' leaving the microphone flamin'
Throwing up hip-hop signs cause that's the set that I be claimin'
Guerilla war fares for those who love to pull your card
Grimies from Fort Green to Malcolm X Boulevard
Now, if that's what you're hoping then it's the wrong things you're scopin'
I may not rap bout slittin no throats but trust me kid I'll get you open
Verse 2
Here comes a taste of the rawness, like you never saw this
Once I grip the cordless, my victory is flawless
Chaos and havoc, lyrically psychopathic
At times get pornographic, lord man I gots to have it
Then I commit to hit you with this composite that's ultimate
Too legit splendid come get wit' it for your comfort
But then sloppily, rappers try to copy me
Take pieces of my property, and use it all unproperly
And probably, been focusing a while to copy my style
But child what I'll compile is too versatile
I'm too superior, it's sort of like comparing a
Spanking new Desert Eagle to a rusty little derringer
But skip the tool, let's try to deal here with the jewel
That I'm droppin on you, now let me take you all to school
You see, to graduate in hip-hop
