Look, you talking to a God in the flesh
And this batiman something that
I gotta address this ain't a song pa
This is a sonata of death
I will beat this motherfucker
I'll pinata his chest
This official, you should talk to the ref
I will put this big black
Sawed-off to his vest
Have these dum dums lodged
In an officer's chest
Put your body in a box like a login address
Here's a flower, say hello to the dead
Sinatra in '59, that's a hole in the head
The hammer Statue of Liberty
I'm lifting the torch
To me you just another sale
You a Christopher Cross
A rolling stone don't imprison the moss
Azazel is here, exorcism is off
I'm focused on a billy b
You focused on a mill
What you focused on is silly b
I'm focused on the kill

I'm letting this fucking yoppa off
I'm letting this fucking yoppa off
I'm letting this fucking yoppa off
I'm letting this fucking whopper off

This motherfucker talking
I guess that he ain't breathing
Sonny LoSpecchio, this pussy
He ain't leaving
Energy drained, malnutrition
He ain't eating
Crying with his mouth all bloody
He ain't teething
I'm here homie, in the thick of the fog
It's a war torn city and I'm sick as a dog
I'm in my duffy it's a Christian Lacroix
This a dope fiend lean and
It fixed the withdrawal
It's dirty here look like the spot
That I got booked in
The type to see my face in
The front like he not looking
Boxcutter I will shank a fairy
The Aston Martin is the
Color of a Frankenberry
Have your whole shit jooken with a blinky
A hundred round drum I can cook em in a jiffy
I ain't the one to run from Jihad
License to kill
But I ain't got a gun and a badge

I'm letting this fucking yoppa off
I'm letting this fucking yoppa off
I'm letting this fucking yoppa off
I'm letting this fucking whopper off

Copyright: Songtrust Ave
Writer(s): STUART HUDGINS, VINCENT LUVINER