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Tripping off the beat kinda, dripping off the meat grinder |
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Heat niner, pimping, stripping, soft street minor |
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China was a neat signer, trouble with the script digits |
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Double dip, bubble lips, sorrow less midget |
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Borderline schizoid, sort of fine tits tho |
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Pour the wine hold the grind, quarter to nine, lets go |
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Ever since ten eleven, glad she met a brethren |
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Then his last style seven alligator, seven at the gates of heaven |
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Knocking, no answer, slow dancer |
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Hopeless romancer, dopest flow stanzas |
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Yes, no Villain, Metal Face the death stroke |
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Guest shows, still incredible in escrow |
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Just say hoe, I will taste the yayo |
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Wild West style fest, y'all best to lay low |
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Hey bro, Day Glo, set the bet, pay dough |
|
Before the cheddar get away |
|
You best to get Maaco |
|
The worst haters God on perpetrated are favors |
|
Demonstrated in the perforated Rod Lavers |
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In all quad flavors, large savers |
|
Still back in the game like Jack Lalanne |
|
think you know the name, don't rack your brain |
|
on a fast track to half insane |
|
Either in a slow beat or that of speed or wrath of Kane |
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Laughter, pain |
|
Doom's songs lit, in the booth, with the best host |
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Doing bong hits, on the roof, in the west coast |
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He's at it again, mad at the pen |
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Glad that we win a tad fat in a bad hat for men |
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Grind the cinnamon, Manhattan warmongers |
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You can find the Villain in satin congas |
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The vans screeches, the old man preaches |
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About the gold sand beaches, the cold hand reaches |
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For the old tan ellesse's |
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Jesus |
