Ayy…
This Miklo, homie.
Skull face, full case, zero grace.
Tell them purple-clown Ballas they next.
We don’t shoot to warn —
We shoot to erase.
⸻
Catch a Balla by the tracks, now he missin’ his jaw,
Purple rag in his throat, now he reppin’ the law.
Talk tough ‘til I pull up — now his knees all weak,
Got his homies pourin’ forty while they kiss his cheeks.
I don’t talk, I just bang with the red on sight,
Left his brains on his Jordans in broad daylight.
They say “Miklo, chill”—nah, I’m past all that,
I’ll turn Grove into Baghdad, no cap, all facts.
Chrome cuete in my lap, skull face like a demon,
Hit the switch on the ‘64, while your hood start screamin’.
Ain’t no warning shots, I aim center mass,
Now your OG’s ghost, put his pic on a glass.
⸻
I got a skull on my face, blood in my ride,
Red flag hangin’ when I’m slidin’ outside.
Ballas talk tough ’til they flatline fast,
Another purple punk zipped up in a bag.
SKULL FACE, vato, I was made for war,
Diablos at your crib, not the liquor store.
SKULL FACE, yeah, I’m sick in the dome,
Turn your whole block into a funeral home.
⸻
I don’t box, I don’t tweet, I just creep with heat,
Have your mama pickin’ teeth off the fuckin’ street.
You wear colors for style — I wear ‘em for blood,
I tattoo your set in chalk when it floods.
You flex chains — I chain your fate,
With a sawed-off gauge by your granny’s gate.
Heard your lil homie snitchin’? That boy won’t last,
I’ll make him hug his own guts like a suicide pact.
Look, I’m a Diablo — I don’t play with threats,
I make a movie out your hood, now who’s next?
Even cops don’t slide through when we circle,
And if they do, we paint the squad car purple.
⸻
I got a skull on my face, blood in my ride,
Red flag hangin’ when I’m slidin’ outside.
Ballas talk tough ’til they flatline fast,
Another purple punk zipped up in a bag.
SKULL FACE, vato, I was made for war,
Diablos at your crib, not the liquor store.
SKULL FACE, yeah, I’m sick in the dome,
Turn your whole block into a funeral home.
⸻
This ain’t no verse, it’s a warning, ese,
Keep poppin’ off and you’ll see who decay.
We slice throats, hang shirts like banners,
While your crew hold vigils with scented planners.
All that TikTok tough talk? Not with me.
I got vatos on go with machetes from T.
They don’t talk, they don’t post, they just aim and squeeze,
Put your set in a blender and serve it with cheese.
I’m not a gangsta rapper, I’m a real one first,
Ask about Miklo — I put Ballas in the dirt.
So next time you see that red ’64,
Better pray to God, homie… and lock your door.
⸻
Skull Face.
Eastside Diablos.
Ballas ain’t ready for that real street funk.
This ain’t no TikTok beef — this is body bags and silence.
Puro pinche Diablo
