The parole board’s a bunch of stupid bureaucrats men, who are laying up on the dollar bill: “Take that poison and… and… and die in that cell; or say you’re full of shit and we’ll let you go.” You know?! So the parole board wants me to go in and count down to their reality and say that their reality is the real reality and my reality is really this stupid, dumb reality.
VERSE 1:
Cut through you’re flesh With sharp knives Blast you to death Laugh in You’re face; I’m as trife As it gets When I said it, leave you to pass Like archives Forget it, you better walk that stat When the berretta sparks, click clack Get back More pieces of you’re grill Will be shot off; kid I keep it ill Death rap mastery In crib bumpin Battery thumpin With anyone that has it in for me Dump a clip o’ dum-dums in a dummy Then dump him in the dumpster I talk so much crazy shit There’s a chance You just might not believe me until I punch you In you’re fuckin face kid Face it I’ma have to demonstrate shit Some demented hate shit Then some young impressionable kid’ll watch me and emulate it The cycle o’ psychos never ends Malevolence Continues Through venues Ever since I got banned from knitting factory on wetlands CHORUS:
Hustle Like a sicko ‘Cause I got money comin to me There’s enough of it out there for Necro to snatch 50 Mill I won’t stop ‘til I have it ‘Cause I’m ambitious And maliciously vicious Enough to kill Anyone in my way better move We came from nothing And now our foundation is strong I will rep my own shit Fuck what you do You can’t do what I do Gores of original so it’s on
VERSE 2:
Jabbin you Or stabbin you up Pick one Grabbin you up Quick son Snuffed up Bucked up You a fuckin victim Necro be the representative of Brooklyn, New York: that’s where I live Gats to your rib Robbin you blindly Find me Back in the crib Chillin iller with a bitch That’s willin and able to strip On the table for a villain with a goal I’m makin a million before 30 years old I keep shit real when I step If my reputation’s at stake No hesitation When I break faces Whippin out Razors Flippin out Logical psycho Necro Astronomical sicko The last of a dying breed I’m the master Of sick bastards I’m indeed Pump this loud ‘til you’re eardrums burst My verse Comforts you like a tech during beef when ten cats step And they get mirked
CHORUSTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
