lyrical shots from the glock
bust bullet holes on the chops
i want the number one spot
brutal like domestic violence
o-ccured when i slammed in
to be mad as ralph cramden
never need for stress there's three bags of sess
my thoughts be sneaky like a crook from brooklyn
i got more love than valentines
i blast with a silent nine
my hazardous thoughts to cut the mic's life support short
brains get stained like tablecloths when i let off
poetry pushed past the point of no return
leavin mics with third-degree burns
i cramp your style like a spasm
track em through the mud then i bag em
hip-hop drips out my balls
for four score plus seven more
i strike like a bowling ball
electrifying the third rail
peep the smash on paragraphs of ruckus
on a mission from hell's kitchen
i gets in where i fits in for head-touchin
is the industry got me flippin
i don't give a fuck tell that bitch and a nigga
as i run a mile with a racist
hit the billboard with a bullet
peace to the number seven
everybody else get the fo'-nine-three-eleven
i don't know what's going on
if you can take us there. yo
watch me bang the headpiece there's no survival
my flow lights up the block like a homicidal
underground beef for the burger
p.l.o. criminal thoughts you never heard of
runnin through bitches like emmitt smith
niggaz best to be careful crossin
before they end up layin in a coffin
peep this -- my nigga case lives forever
what evil lurks in the heart of men?
only one kid would knock the hinges off the door
thirteen pounds on the table plus a tec
where the fuck's the cream?"