wrath of gods

i could talk bitches out of they jeans

gold diggers out of they cream

little wannabe rap motherfuckers out of they dreams

i'm slick

i could talk a hustler out of his fiends

i rap so hot

the water in my spit becomes steam

i'm like a pound of uncut coke when hittin' the scene

y'all are powder particles that trickled off the triple beam

stop trippin'

little chicken

i ain't payin'

i'm pimpin'

if ya waitin' for trickin' then you should date a magician

wake up and listen

and keep this in the back of your mind

my thoughts are heavy

the weight alone could fracture your spine

cats swear to god they high

hearin' apathy's rhymes

and hold a torch up to trees like the back of a dime

these little backpack faggots probably jacked my lines

but like divorce with no prenup

half of it's mine

y'all are just bitches

while ap's on a mission to make green like chlorophyll

my team drops bread like chicks on health kicks

ya squad could rock bird throwbacks and couldn't sell ticks"