a battle at stim-ltd... rushed recording
mytch shawn mitchell hip
Lyrics
Bitch can't match my style, I'm 'cool' as I am 'hot',
Like runnin 'red lights', I ain't ever 'stop',
You ain't worthy of respect, and yet you're askin' for my props,
You must be 'suicidal', the way you want a 'shot',
You ain't got 'fans', you just 'blow' hot air,
You don't understand, and I won't stop there,
I throw punches like 'boxer', he can't 'rap' against my 'package',
Like 'kickball', this kid's getting' his 'ass kicked',
Massive, don't even ask it, my skills ain't 'question',
Lyrikal arsony, ain't lyrically steppin', and like "True Confessions",
You'd have to 'cheat' to even be 'testin',
Call me the professor, cause I teach this bitch a lesson…
Sick of the wannabes, sick of you,
You ain't "Sick wit it", kid, look at you crew!
This beef is expired - it ain't nothin' new,
I spit with fire, you spit tobacco chew,
I don't wanna be picky, but ya recycled a couple lines,
You stench is rancid, so we drop pinesole on ya mind,
Your rhymes are 'nursery', basic, old, and dyin',
My rhymes are fire, and I ain't even tryin',
You ain't got the 'balls' to 'swing' with my 'club',
Ain't up to 'par', don't even try to fuck,
You's like a prostitute, the way you suck,
'cause the only time you 'come deep' is when you pay a buck,
This was 10 minute keystyle, so show some gratitude,
You wouldn't be coordinated, if you could lines of latitude,
All you are retard with a bad attitude,
I could go through manic depession, my rhymes still wouldn't be a sad as you,
Ain't no one messin' with Immortal Philosophers,
Keep dreamin' kid, cause what you want ain't possible,
I listened to ya 'play', and quickly switched like 'audible',
A knife through ya eye, a bullet through your heart in the wrong room,
Can't match my 'game', I take 'clue' to ya doom,
I ain't tryin' take a stand - I could sit against this midget,
Your flow falls for more than Potter than for the Snidget,
And like elderly in sex, you ain't good enough to fidget,
And even with 'phone calls', you couldn't 'punch in' the digits,
He ain't 'anti-social', he don't speak, cause I smashed his vocals
You couldn't battle 'call', if it was short distance local,
And like cheap cell phones, your text ain't mobile,
Dark's bustin' through the 'knight', people know I'm noble,
My delivery is 'hot, yours ain't worthy of postal,
Your shit is light and feminine like bitches who wear pink.
I put blood on ya teeth, ya think you were drinkin red ink
You got less multies than decimals in equations
I impale you bitch, like Asian to Caucasian
Don't pretend to be my dawg, you ain't got a 'bone' a fetch,
Exterminate the pest, nothin' against gays, but there's suddenly one less,
'cause he couldn't be 'straight' like turnin Z into an S,