Yo, test my gangster? You must be suicidal,
Beejay spittin’ nursery rhymes like he’s stuck in a high school recital.
Majik talkin’ tough online, but polite in person—man, that’s vital,
Pull the man bun tighter, maybe it’ll squeeze out a line that’s tribal.
Self Curry Soupy? Man, you scammin’ for a Temu stand,
Five hundred for a vid? You finessed me with that shaky hand.
Government aid got you thinkin’ you a businessman?
Only time you holdin’ weight’s when you lift that food stamp brand.
Beejay, you copy flows like a Xerox machine,
Claimin’ you the next up? Bitch, you barely on the scene.
Say my name, I’ll bury you deep, no need for a beam,
Got more punch in one bar than your whole fuckin’ team.
Majik, you a ghost, but I see you crystal clear,
Talkin’ threats to my parents? Now I’m shiftin’ up a gear.
See me in person, and it’s “Yes sir, no sir,” full of fear,
Online you a killer, in real life you disappear.
Soupy, you curry-stained, watered-down fraud,
Only thing you produce is excuses, that’s odd.
Runnin’ scams for change, man, you’re barely a pod,
Talkin’ gear but couldn’t film a vid with a fuckin’ iPod.
I’m a beast off the leash, put your face to the curb,
Let that Uzi speak fluently, you ain’t catchin’ the verb.
Bodies drop, chalk lines—another name to preserve,
Gumby flow, bend you backwards, now you eatin’ your words.
You boys sweet, softer than Boosie in a lullaby,
Pull that trunk open, now it’s time for you to die.
Hollows in the clip, let ’em fly, watch ‘em multiply,
Brain matter splatter, got your moms screamin’ to the sky.
Click-clack, load up, man, I’m itchin’ for war,
Ain’t no talkin’, let the choppa even out the score.
Put Beejay in a blender, pour Soupy on the floor,
Majik in a box—sealed, locked, no encore.
Test my gangster, watch your soul levitate,
Piss on your graves, let the dirt marinate.
Name etched in stone, yeah, desecrate,
Hope that piss burns worse than heartbreak.
Bodies droppin’, ain’t no resuscitation,
Your careers flatlined, welcome to termination.
Catch you walkin’, that choppah’s a revelation,
Now you facin’ God, beggin’ for salvation.
Yo, test my gangster? You must got a death wish,
Beejay spit nursery bars—diapered up, suckin’ on teething sticks.
Rap game’s pre-K, you ain’t passin’ this entrance quiz,
Man’s flow so recycled, it’s droppin’ blue bins at the crib.
Majik Ghost? You Casper with a Wi-Fi plan,
Talkin’ reckless online, but in person, you shake my hand.
Wearin’ a man bun thinkin’ you the samurai man,
But you slice like butter knives—dull as your Spotify fans.
Soupy, you scammin’ crumbs, beggin’ for clicks and views,
Five hundred gone? Shaky cam, bro, what angle you tryin’ to prove?
Government checks feedin’ your ego, but you still lose,
I’ve seen better shots from blind kids with Nerf guns at school.
Beejay, Xerox flow, pressed thin like a flattened dime,
You the “next up”? Man, you barely next in line.
Name-drop me, I’ll autograph your coffin in red design,
