

Prompt / Lyrics
I'm sick in the frontal lobe, I hold a stick wit no scope Oh bro it explodes wit a dick and it blows Puttin yo ass on the fuckin flo, Yeah you already know, I be up wit da bros, Smokin up on da dro that we slowly grow, Yeah dat we got on show, fo sho Four door sit low on the floor board Your torn, sittem all down wit da muh fuckin four-four, Be goin on tour whore you be suckin on six dicks Sittin out for a sore ore, I'm a bastard yeah got a lotta plastic on the blaster Its tragic, clap at her with the pump like an asthmatic As a matter of fact I'm badder than the Mad Hatter Catch me slidin' thru the static, batshit, automatic Spit acid, turn yo whole faction to a casket habit You plastic rappers gettin' melted in the same furnace I’m burnin' churches while the deacons still learnin' verses Turn the curb to a sermon, sermon to a sermon Every bar a crucifixion, nails in yo sermon Got the crown of thorns twisted in the dreads Middle finger to the feds while I’m pissin' on they heads Chrome heart chain but the heart chrome cold Sell soul for the glow then I’m snatchin' it back, sold You fold quicker than origami on a molly binge I’m godly sin, probably been bodyin' since Polo to the ankles, hollows in the chamber Follow with the anger, swallow up ya manager Tape his mouth with the hundred dollar bills he fumbled Now he humble when the muzzle make his eardrums rumble I’m from where the streetlights flicker like they scared to shine Where the reaper ride passenger and death hit the line Where the dice cry blood every time they get shook And the good die young but the hood die crook Put the city on my back then I broke both shoulders Still carryin' the culture while you posin' for vultures Four-four sing like it’s Lauryn in the booth One verse leave the booth lookin' like a crime scene truth So run that fade or run them digits, either way you finished I’m the sickness in the system that they never could diminish Mad Hatter with the hammer, swingin' at yo brimmin' fitted When the smoke clear you just another name they never printed… I'm sick in the frontal lobe, I hold a stick wit no scope Oh bro it explodes wit a dick and it blows Puttin yo ass on the fuckin flo, Yeah you already know, I be up wit da bros, Smokin up on da dro that we slowly grow, Yeah dat we got on show, fo sho Four door sit low on the floor board Your torn, sittem all down wit da muh fuckin four-four, Be goin on tour whore you be suckin on six dicks Sittin out for a sore ore, I'm a bastard yeah got a lotta plastic on the blaster Its tragic, clap at her with the pump like an asthmatic As a matter of fact I'm badder than the Mad Hatter Your move, emvee.
Tags
Old school lyrical cypher, boom bap, heavy bass
2:36
No
2/28/2026