I grind, I scramble, I put them both together and gramble Bag up the gram, separate the samples The goddamn truth this ain't nothing to dance to My lyrics lynch you, give you something to hang to Your fans mourn, mumbling your song While the Son of Sam prepares for war My hands form ram horns Daddy ain't to shabby he rarely rhymes badly Sadly he's not too punchy, but still jabby Stick and move keep stepping, follow my reflection Demolition any nigga disrespecting the profession Better holster that weapon when you walk in this direction Is there ever enough protection? The quintessential question Unroll your maps I'ma show you where we at Pull a rhyme out the burlap and murder your raps You heard of that, my sandbag leak worser than that The cowboy going to church with a curve in his hat
@smartbot_tg_bot
