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Old School, New School |
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need to know this |
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getcha game up you better keep focus |
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And so I said that they were biters |
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sharkin' up lines from lawless resolutes |
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chip off the writers block with 9's that chop against the destitute |
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evolution of the manor, trade royalites with verses |
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go with platinum, can't go with burberry...it hurts since |
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A verse gets termed as the worst, but when immersed in your playlist |
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that shit plays first re...hearse all bars |
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matter harsh scars and battle |
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I bring tallstalls with chatter yet they all just shatter and split |
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battered by the saccharine gifts, stolen from affiliates, Sharon Patter and redshit |
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Shoulda stitched it by hand and mouth, now you shook planning doubts |
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spitting west while standing south, all n all, sucess for you is not at all probable |
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when I take you to the lake to find out if your water-soluble |
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I'm sick of bitches typing like their spliting inches off a ruler |
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to be judged by, file pressing consider my style, metric. |
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That means stop biting my shit! |
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That means start writing your shit! |
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No rest for the weary, or the wicked stand witness |
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to know rest for the weapon, I'm a skeet with tradition, now listen! |
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this isn't just another sick written from the darkstar harm how the sharks that get bitten |
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This is hardtaught! Don't expect a rescue and don't let me catch you alone in the carpark |
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cause shark skin is fashion and that is me |
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touch your anatomy right down to your "Carhartts" |
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use to write for a site but I didn't spark smarter |
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Ritebrite! You could think it, my first pink slip |
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but this isn't a house by writing bumper stickers |
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it's something you stick it and bump, like a heroin needle |
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see the shit in the trunk is apparently lethal |
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which y'all live to disrupt like American leaders |
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I'm gonna pull quick from the category |
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I run bullshit like a matador, see? |
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That means stop biting my shit! |
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That means start writing your shit! |
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I'm the rapier, but you fear that the spear that sparred our father harbours pokes |
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rich rappers might catch a Darva Conger in...HOAX! |
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that the bitch they get with doesn't switch, Approach! |
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to the sickness, leave you witless buying her ropes n |
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rings n things of that nature, shit all you hear is "rings this", |
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"pitchpacks", "pagers" |
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to get that paper, she'll find a mattels a cell |
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style for Fidel'cs as hell, looks like a dictator |
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type a chick that a getcha car stolen |
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Hardtoil! She might get up in that ass like Shark Oilden |
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again I can see what you thought was a fargo |
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but you can't trust those with hearts like charcoal |
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I didn't prepare to punk, from when I put em in the boat |
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It was a Lebaron trunk |
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I connect for the very best sound and set |
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now I'm rockin a tooth right around my neck |
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That means stop biting my shit! |
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That means start writing your shit, kid! |
