I spit it, these lyrics so vivid
They pictures on project walls
Twelve feet tall, hell greets, y'all
Fire brimstone, I write grim poems
Edgar Allen Poe with the flow goes the silencer
Upon the cold nozzles of the .44 caliber
No more challenger, bullet show like Gallagher
Ink pens in my hand like a spray paint can
The canvas is your mind, the black Michelangelo
Hands'll sculpt, the Eiffel tote, the mics I broke
Residue lead to a trail, another Priest tale
Death I brew, the witch-lord-king, that rip off wings
When I spit sixteen, it gets extreme, explicit scene
No more dreams, just cold screams, happening
Reoccurring rappers wanna perform, they need insurance

My cyclone poem, fix the roof of the Superdome
You crash your plane to my building, just tryna get on
And it's a vein, cold rain, write my words in propane
Keep the heat in store like the stoves in Maytag
Carry more blades than grass in your yard, grab your rake
I'm original, man on the take, burn to the shake
Roll and blow, the soul of pharaohs out the blood bank
The Wu-Fam armory, my beats got bodies
Know the roll you in the grave with the tip of a shotty
Pasadena lobby, bullet holes from robbery, probably
Veins made of cobblestone, bitches go home wobbly
Capture life-like photographs, double stuff hash
Pure mid-serious grim, with verbal whiplash
From the fetus to the overseer, I bleed it
Nigga, you'll climb a Crystal Mountain, just to try to go see it
My life is a movie script, John Singleton reading
The blood flow like magma, hotter than traps in Eden
Send shockwaves like circles from objects dropped in lakes (dropped in lakes)

Pass me the dutch, I'll fill it up
I wrote this rhyme in the corner like I was a dunce
If I told ya twice, I told ya once
That's word to the China man that sold you fronts
You be number nine, I did not stutter
The sun is my dad, the moon is my mother
Look dude, there is no other
Like the Three Wisemen that came from Persia
To bless Jesus, peace to Baby Jesus
I'm becoming a Buddha, this is my thesis
I am the chosen, I've walked on water that wasn't frozen
And you can talk shit, but look at your lip, now it's busted
Sorta like burgundy, bubbling custard
I don't wanna discuss it
I'm on another level, come on, man, look at my mustard
That's Grey Poupon, what planet you on?
You wanna take my oil, I show you my rocket
You wanna take my chain, I'll break ya eye socket
Kamikaze, you can't stop this
Divine wind (go), I'm climbing
To reach, higher states, your drowning (uh-huh, yeah)
Sitting on the same corner, frowning
This is L.X.g., microphone clowning

Copyright: O/B/O DistroKid, Songtrust Ave
Writer(s): AUNDRE WOODLAND, JOSEPH KIRK WILSON, JUSTIN DANTE CROSS, KEVIN BLAKE CROSS, THEODORE WAYNE ARRINGTON, WALTER REED