Cypher

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.

Old school lyrical cypher, boom bap, heavy bass