Reppin da name, my click, and what im about...basically it...
hiphop
rap
underground
punchline
dead broke
da gloves
round ii
Lyrics
P-U-N-C-H-L-I-N-E, you can come and get it…
D-E-A-D-B-R-O-K-E, but you really don’t want it…
(Repeat)
Im one sick-kid, but that was predicted//
So get the fuck outta here like you been evicted//
Ima rebel, but don’t think im some hick-kidd//
I ask “do you really want it?” like rick-did//
Cuz you have no clue what ya got yourself into//
Towel on ya head after a red dot, like a hindu//
Keep testing, you’ll see what a bang’ll-do//
Leave a patch on your stomach like kangaroo//
Dead Broke, no need to say what my gang’ll-do//
We’ll show ya more killa bee’s then wu tang‘ll-do//
And I got a trio album and two solo C-D’s//
Like new years, I drop da ball cuz ima make you see-these’s//
Leave ya bitch ass body to turn to fieces//
Right after I put a hole in ya like a reeses//
When ya see my piece-freeze//
Cuz if not…you gone find a hole threw your center like ones on C-D’s//
P-U-N-C-H-L-I-N-E, you can come and get it…
D-E-A-D-B-R-O-K-E, but you really don’t want it…
Im your competition, ona unfair-level//
So you cant see your enemy coming like daredevil//
Think you can hold-me, show-me, an obvious phonie//
Im hood, I be taking lives like Angelina Jolie//
Im flirting-wit-models, body look like its working-wit-bottles//
And mami love to me smile, like I work-at-McDonalds//
See between chicks arms clearly like a glass-watch//
And you, only chick you wit look like sasquatch//
Blast-glocks, I was taught by class-knocks//
So all my beefs never leave home, like a mascot//
Passed-hott, pump heat, you only pump at gas-spots//
Your lawn aint even got more green then my stash-box//
Im here now, but I still don’t think you kno?//
That it aint John Dep’s show, and im still bout to blow//
Dissin-da-glow? So yeh im fixing-to-show//
That you only seen gold and ice when ya piss-in-da-snow//
P-U-N-C-H-L-I-N-E, you can come and get it…
D-E-A-D-B-R-O-K-E, but you really don’t want it…
Punchline, bad guy, don’t try and fix-me-nigga//
And my dough stacked up by like sixty-figures//
And I stay walking da block wit sixty-niggas//
That’s why I got more beef then Winn Dixie-nigga//
And I wont hold a grudge…
But I bust slugs, and bang hammers just like its done by a judge//
When im fillin ya wit slugs//
I tie you up and leave you there forever like a pair of lugs//
Fame-bound, punchline so put your game-down//
Fore I put needles in ya, like a baseball game-mound//
If it’s the same-clown, speakin my name-now//
Then ima have him leaning back farther then James-Brown//
Few years, yall be thinkin back when Nas came-down//
Funny thing, it’s the same thing when I came-round//
And im real sick of hearing all these phony-bitches//
Act hard, but get shook like items used by lonely-bitches…naw mean//
P-U-N-C-H-L-I-N-E, you can come and get it…
D-E-A-D-B-R-O-K-E, but you really don’t want it…