I'ma Christopher Wallace this.
Liftin' rafters often with Inspector Gadget flawless spit, blitzin' rappin' auto-fixed to rip n shatter all ya shit.
I'm off the script, hittin' acid dissolved in twix. Get back, I'm chargin' in with ten mags in my cardigan, goin' tic for tac with all you kids. I'm out my mind and on the fritz shouting while I'm talkin' shit.
God damn, deep breath, and look at the screen. Weak text from shook ass teens demandin' respect. "Look at me!!" The Lucid King's back at it bruisin' these wack faggots, laughin' at 'em. Bruce Lee? Dude, please. I'm Chuck Norris, Buddhist priest. Buckin' Taurus cruisin' deep through the streets punchin' Horus for my fuckin' chorus to bust the torrents with each new release. Glued to your seat droolin' at Z, wishin' you were cool as me.
Fuck you.
Zen is cray n scribblin' lines with crayons. Hemingway on Ritalin, high. I stay gone. Hotter when I'm blazed. Pen's enflamed fitted with a collar to chain this monster on this page. The Symbol of crazed spittin' walloping 'em proper to whittle away and conquer you lames. The Proverbs of the God.
Namaste