Lyrics
I'm a monster on tracks, weight to break backs,
And back your brakes if you aint willin to face facts,
CracKa-JaCk is the crap, I mean shit, I aint censored,
I'm pissed, I'm a dick, I'm a prick, I'm ill tempered,
But I still idol my mentor, and his mental capacity,
He was the one that crafted me to craft tragedies,
And speak irrationally, so I stay spittin' sporadically,
Bashin' emcees by the threes, to their knees,
Believe I'm a demon that's been unleashed on this beat,
And I won't cease 'til I can't breathe and I heave,
And need to receive transplants of lungs from my family,
It's insanity when I slam on these beats, Please,
I heat it to degrees that exceed the surface of Mecury,
I'll murk anybody that tries to spit dirt at me,
Murderous emcee hidin' in trees,
And by trees I mean weed, I smoke it for free,
Cuz I move Oz's to half Lbs better believe me,
I spit terminal disease, that means you don't get better,
It's like every day the weather just gets wetter,
And you get deader, nope, not no better,
It's just in the letters, it's all in the rhymes,
I break lines like junkies shootin' too many times,
And the truth is... these rhymes aren't fiction,
I spit sick at nitwits just to start friction,
And they get to wishin', they'd be servin' me dishes,
But I end up spittin' vicious and these kids get ripped quick,
Whipped like Bisquick wit a quickness you never witnessed,
Wit no witnesses to witness it, lines hit like light-en-ing,
I'm frightening these kids when I write like this,
And I burn a knife in a fire to slice more quick,
Like hot butter gets split, that's how I treat your wig,
Have you bleeding on the street like a christmas pig,
You get this kid, that's I'm sick like this?
I spit liquid siphillis, and put the shit on my pistol clips,
And pick bitches from my hit list and give 'em their christmas gift.
