I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
Dutch in my ear, Olde E in my palm,
I Freddy Krueger your face, Michael Myers your moms.
You botherin mine? That’s when I’m sparkin the nine.
You can tell by the rhyme it’s my time to shine;
Let’s eat, motherfucker, I don’t dine on swine.
I don’t beef with turkeys, I told you the God’ll fold you,
Hard to digest: I suggest that you take tofu.
Wake up: all of that ‘crack in the street’ talk?
It’s made up, like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
I don’t like thugs, I don’t like nerds,
I don’t like myself and I hate bein’ disturbed.
Ayo, the arm bone connected to the hand bone,
Nigga, the hand bone connected to the damn chrome!
Ain’t no tellin’ what I’d do for a dollar…
I’m not your father, but guess what I’mma do to ya mama.
Niggas’ rap albums sound like love letters,
Pen in my hand, like: damn, fam, I could do much better.
Gangsta rappers can’t fight, so they rap about guns.