Aye shawty, I’m cold on the mic
I'm hype when I write, immaculant I-Life
Practitioner pen type
Font wit me
I control, alt, delete, diffusion life
Refuse your viewing rights no lights
I’m tryna control rap energy
Send to me all ya idols,
St. Aquinas firefight ya images full of rhinestones
I know.
I’m bold, spit in italics cuz I’m right.
Which means I’m leanin towards the opposite
Shyt you left and liked.
Lick my lips,
Tend to delight, women friends and fans alike.
Bite none of my predecessors, but award em’ out of spite Be content,
Your purpose severed, enveloped in foolish Hors d'oeuvres Trinkets tassels and plaques.
MARTA has new seating arrangements
You can either get off the damn bus, or get the f*ck back I’m Aljazeera, you MSNBC you whack
Atlanta I’m here, entangled in this candy-coated world Shoot back
Its sugar-free, bytch

Chorus:
Thumb on ya trachea/fingers gently wrapped around ya neck/ chaney certified tactics/truth is my dialect/my language is to subdue thee/who he/naw, we ain’t here for murder/just here to make em’ woozy

Verse II:
I transform, mitosis, meiosis
I’m walking for higher levels,multiple clorosis
Introvert like the frames beveled,Frankie and Maze
Or bad boy Betha, playin’ with the devil, lets race
Steel like I’m Vanderbilt bound, construct a sound
This is Full Sail audionomics, take a bow
Hands on deck, fingertips singed from pressin eject
I bow-chika-wow, my knife enjoys sex with ya neck
Never slaughter due to lack of respect for you
But for keepin my people further in debt
I smile for the public but, when discontent
I’m Obama you Chavez, you see the index
Clearly noted, who’s the aggressor with the threat
Victims duck, I stand out side of low low
Doors open and bust. Tatted on my chest
The Lord I trust. Nothing hallowed except the name
The game,you in it for the bucks
I meant what I said,you fukced

Chorus:
Thumb on ya trachea/fingers gently wrapped around ya neck/ Chaney certified tactics/truth is my dialect/my language is to subdue thee/who he/naw we ain’t here for murder/just here to make em’ woozy

Verse III (B.Ware):

yeah! b.ware! unh!
now, i gag, spat, vomitted half Islamic
fuck Ebonics, my prose spoken to keep crackers out it
raps packaged for black crack victims of Reaganomics
fuck if you don't get it, acknowledge it ain't for you
ooh! pressure, pressure
practice, niggas is actresses
the word is cirque du solei, flow based in acrobatics
we used to flip off mattresses
now we flip phrases while tumblin, mumblin over these drums and
ah! he's gassed give me tums and
burp me baby, my sade said "brandon, grow up"
bib covered in throw up
the young at heart still I’ll dearly depart your career
re-definition of dirty south, i'm here, yeah
the black Webster, no conjecture
and no label lynching, we off they ropes like wrestler
resuscitate'em on the stretcher, they dyin' from the pressure. Southside's the West's Mecca, yeah!"