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Hook
(I’ma Hit You Up. I’ma Hit You Up.
I’ma Hit You Up. If your mouth keeps running.)
Agony. Injury. Misery. Defeat.
This is what you get when you go against me.
Blood. Death. Tears. Pain.
These are the things that my enemies gain.

Verse
Aint no rainbows on my shirt. I don’t want to dance homey.
Unless you’re Jesus, you aint gotta put your hands on me.
You had had a lil too much Henny and Coke.
Gon feel contact high without having a smoke.
You need to quit ya yapping and, back up out of my face.
Or get your top ate and I aint talking bout MySpace.
You got guns but you won’t make it to the trunk fam.
One slap. One jab. One hook. One slam.
Your boys can’t help. One’s drunk and one ran
You can tell your crew you caught lumps cuz ya gun jammed.
Nobody has to know. I aint trying to clown you
Won’t be me that that told them how the bouncers found you.
I mean, why would I put you on blast.
I’d be, doing enough, by whooping your ass.
And don’t try to get back aint a thang you could do to me.
My good bars mean good gated community.
Verse
I’ll Chris Simms you young bucs, make ya lose your spleen
When I Expos you bammas, you’re gon lose your team.
I’m Mike Vick of this mic shit. Yall the ones that might snitch.
I’ve mastered bars. MasterCard knows that I am priceless.
I write this, pen hand tighter than a vice grip.
Flood the lab with crude and maybe then I might slip.
You better play Dungy, be a quiet man.
Or you’ll see the fat lady and the choir fam.
-Compared to me you clowns are gay comics.
Funny style while I sound like straight vomit.
I spit sicker than Chris-tipher when he was standing.
That's Wallace or Reeves. You feebs are outlandish.
If you raise a hand to me, you better be toasting
And that thing in your palm? It better be lotion.
You’ll get thrown in the ocean with cinderblock fins.
I’m known for rocking mics. I’ll do the same to ya chin.
Verse
If the proof is in the pudding, then hello, I’m Jell-o.
Cuz I do my thing sure as submarines are yellow.
And even if they aren’t, I’ll still play my part.
Starring role of a show called Break A Bamma Off.
Your so-called army is faker than Sgt. Slaughter
But the goons on my squad could be working for Blackwater.
I’ll Iraq the track. Take your ears for hostage.
Aint built for the struggle? Stay home and cross-stitch.
Imposters, can’t really, stop a moving tank silly.
“How’d you get to be so focused man?” Thank Billy.
The sun of Vickie too. I run with a sickly crew.
Graduated. Left the House. Now I’m steady giving flu.
Not the bird type. Pandemic word flight.
Vocab’s scary but I guess I’m still a nerd, right?
-Think it if you want. Speak it if you’re brave.
And the next time they see you, they’ll be peeking in your grave.