2 Trillion 2

[Verse 1] A lotta MC's too finicky with their beats I take throw-away joints and turn them shits into heat While you piss in your sheets you dream of this when you sleep Shoe horns and crow bars remove my fists from your teeth It’s my victory speech it’s official the [?] We snuck inside the building and slipped through the doors cracks The forecast calls for sprinkles and light [?] But nothing earth-shattering or life-altering You know the drill bit I keep it simple stupid While you sip strawberry flavored dribbles of menstrual fluid Pussy, how much time you think it took me To infiltrate the system get these middle men to book me It’s about to get ugly as Chewie holler at your Wookiee So fuck the politrickin’, with model citizens and what you trust I’d rather do songs about how much you suck Why you sit and wonder if God’s pissed When New Orleans just drowned to death in a puddle of God’s piss Does God exist? While you debate she may or may not I’ll be buying out the bar and pounding haterade shots Taking bottles to the face slang jager and [?] You could tie me with your favorite Flavor Flav clock, like “stop!” That’s just how me and my affiliates do Live from nowhere, two trillion and two [Verse 2] At the shows up here, bitches blow lines in the bathroom, meanwhile On stage you blow your lines in half the freestyle You trapped in beat now, I’ll slap you senile And if I woke you from your dream then go back to sleep now They askin’ me how much I sign to Finger-print for The in stores splendor ten four Them tore more than you plus him What I kick persuade like new buck Timbs That there’s no such thing as me not ill You’s a hypochondriac with a hospital bill You can watch it on film and as you go through your set Come to terms with the fact you’re mediocre at best [?] Still you [?] that it’s hard Cause you just figured out how to work your ASR Stop asking me, I’m fine, don’t need beats 518 stand up the home team’s deep You ain’t crew jerk you just wish you was down My crew threw dirt like my dick’s in the ground Your spines chilly off nine millies and rubber gloves They trying to kill me, I’m lyin’, really but they was Now they look for the obligatory not in a handshake Till they hardcore band gets robbed of its fan base I don’t even need to say it there’s only so much you can take So check my man Gyro and the sounds that his hands make