I look around and I can see that you shook, boy
You don't know what this took, boy
I could write enough bars to fill up a fucking book
And still they'd be asking for the hook, boy
But sometimes you just gotta spit shit to spit shit
I write a diptypch, now you fuckers on my dick tip
I'm John Wick, slick, slitting wrists, it's a quick trip,
I don't lip sync, my lyrics sick as syphillis
And I'm killing this
Unlike these wack rappers
Who put on an act just to brag about cash they don't have
Was that lack of originality supposed to distract me
From the fact you can't rap
Half as well as me?
Cos I could be more broke
But I'm sure as hell not wealthy
I'm no bloke pretending to be something I'm not
I'm no joke, I'm too hot
I eat fire, y'all just suck smoke
Get the f*ck out my way
Why is it I can only play your tape when I'm wasted?
No debate, if there's one thing I hate
It's when rappers take a great beat and then they waste it
Me? I lay waste to shit
Impatiently pacin about in this basement
Apartment, my target's
Been killing your favorite
Rappers, cos half of them don't even say shit
Just in case it's not apparent, motherfucker, this my time
All your rhymes are basic, at the end of the line
But not mine cos I'm
Straight outta Storrs, Connecticut
And for sure, my edicate's reinforced with elegant
Embellishments, in my element, I'm more than special, shit
When I go to record, leave them floored with eloquence
Yeah, these words scorch, and what's more, the precedent
I'm setting is definitely a new sort of excellence
I leave these rappers hoarse, while I soar, an elephant
Never forgets, and you'll get no recourse or benefits
Are you gettin it? Of course you're hesitant
But I've no remorse, boy, I'm coarse and reticent
Leave you sore with all sorts of assorted blemishes
You're a corpse and I'm bored. I'm no mortal presence
Did I mention my penmanship is heaven-sent?
I put the legend in intelligent, and it's evident,
I'm no Eminem, but you bet I'm eminent
Though I'm not yet relevant, or sellin shit
I still relish it, and I ain't talkin condiments
Don't just spit for the hell of it, use some common sense
Word to Thomas Paine, and to be honest pain
Is all I'm dishin out, I've no time for compliments
Yeah, all you rappers are of no consequence
As incompetent as Congressmen, while I'm accomplishin
Everything I said I would and more, I gotta lotta shit in store
For any motherfucker who thinks that I'm not conquerin
