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.