Yo, you could throw me in a lineup, rough beard
Thick knot and my shines up
Mediterranean bezels rocks planted like saltines
Worth about 600,000 in the Auck scene
I still jog in the hills of Brazil
Twelve eggs and my conditioning coach is Anderson Sil
He's a prized fighter and me, I'm a prized writer
Time you industry niggas recognize fire
Boric acid mixed with ricin
Don't stand under a tree 'cause my flow is lightning
Some say I should be prosecuted death by lethal injection
Electrocuted or Malcolm X em'
Or send a Chinese bitch in the club to stretch em'
And if that don't work then on to the next one
Beef we can let it cook, fried to perfection
Got a bulldog snub that'll cave your chest in

Ayo, my moms never knew that she was nursin' a wolf
And I wrote this on 9/11, covered in soot
Spittin' tobacco out my mouth in Claiborne fatigues
Posted under a Brinks truck waiting to squeeze
They on point like the nose of a Marlin, Spartacus brawlin'
Pressing out pushes and public, nigga, you stolen away
Nowhere to run, faggot, I'll grab your ear
My shootin' arm stay fresh like a bag of gear
Goose coats, yachts, diving off of big boats
My bitch pedicured up with a sick throat
So cold, making you stutter
"I-I-I c-c-can't believe Ghost is still gutter!"
Everywhere I go, I'm caligged up
Cohen optical frames of brightlon, dealt with a crisp cut
See me on a Jackson 5 cover next to Randy
They had black 'fros, mine was sandy
Buckwheat Jackson

Copyright: Spirit Music Group
Writer(s): Dennis Coles