Classic rap lyrics about life, love, money and more.
Let’s pretend we’re both guns, and make this shit erratic:
I’ll be the revolver, you can play the automatic.
Automatic flip scripts, revolver show loyalty.
Each gun is die-able, but only one’s reliable.
You shoot fast, but in the end you jam,
Then I click back, and turn your brains into spam.
Trapped on a planet of pain and perpetrators
That you call ‘Earth,’ but I call ‘Hell’s Equator.’
Nowadays, the game is all bugged out,
Phony, like back when Hammer tried to come thugged out.
Food for thought, eat my words with your mind:
Emcees are grapes, and grapes are crushed to wine.
People say, ‘Grimm, you’ve been shot like 50.
So why don’t you just rhyme like 50?
Then, you could get the money like 50,
Otherwise, before you see success…you’ll be 50.’
Battling me is some deadly shit,
So come equipped with rhymes, guns and two extra clips.
Aim for the head, ‘cause you don’t wear a vest there,
Bullet makes a window, your brain needing fresh air.
Niggas running around fantasizing like they’re Peter Pan…
Your life’s a scam and I’mma fuck it up like Neverland.
You pout like a trout in a drought…can’t get out.
You want to scream, but fish can’t shout.
Get burnt like a candle, very hard to handle,
Do miracles in Nikes like Jesus did in sandals.
We went from candy bars, to handle bars, to hangin’ in bars, to being behind bars
If you’re crying under fire, then you wasn’t built for war.
If a pimp took your girl, then your girl was never yours.
Let’s pretend we’re both guns, and make this shit erratic:
I’ll be the revolver, you can play the automatic.
Automatic flip scripts, revolver show loyalty.
Each gun is die-able, but only one’s reliable.
You shoot fast, but in the end you jam,
Then I click back, and turn your brains into spam.
I cause disasters, I am the master,
Turning little bastards into fucking Casper.
So put your name on a tombstone…
Cause when you try to kill me, I refuse to die alone.
Platinum don’t mean shit
When you’re perpetrating someone else’s life,
And they life ain’t legit.
I keep the ugly rhymes in the cellar of my cranium,
Where no one can see them or hear cries for freedom.
Chopped up raw thoughts the only thing I feed ‘em,
Release the beats from the cellar when I need ‘em.
You got a lot of money; OK, sure…
You can’t buy class, you’re a bum with a manicure.
You’re living up in Heaven, but I know you’re mad as Hell.