The Best Rapper Alive

[Intro] Yea that's right you better walk away Go on and walk away cause I'mma burn this motherfucker down King Kong ain't got shit on me [Verse] Running them ghetto streets, I ain't cooking up nothing But I got the tea kettle on side of me, that metal on side of me I dare you to follow me, I'm double daring you to follow me where the drama be His momma in debt, so she can't pay the funeral fee So wherever them candles at, that's where the funeral be Kids don't get sleep, guns keep 'em up real late Walk in the school, shells laying on the concrete Take 'em to school, show and tell, for that final grade She gave him a 'F', I say that young boy deserve a 'A' Cause she never slept where he slept, or seen ricochet bullets rip Through his cousin's face, ripping his face off I aim the fifth straight, concentrate like I'm playing golf I'm Tiger Woods with a gun in my car, I keep one in my car And keep a bitch with implants, so she keep one in her bra, boom Shit, make room for the lil bastard The flyest nigga you seen on centennial campus The eight ball tucked in my jeans while I'm getting patted down They didn't know I had it on me, stupid security No one securing you, if I'm gon' touch you If I don't like you, the Mossberg pump love you I take that back, it probably just wanna go and fuck you Go with you, then dump you inside the coneal confortable Defending my belt, depending on nobody but myself Unless you talking 'bout money, I need yo help I need some help, they say that my screws is loose Like handlebars on mongoose, this is true You tough rappers, I'm talking to you He ain't on no used to shit, but you see his face grew He say that he fabulous, but really don't have a clue That he just a puppy living in this zoo Shit, whoo, with that said, you should know I am the truth The truth hurts, you should feel pain when I'm done with this verse I'm done.... psyche, I ain't finished Ever since the first grade, been bad with the run-up sentence I never sat the benches in the game of life I played the whole forty-eight minutes, Christ I rap with precision and lyrics, is grandma nice I'm cooking up something, you want you a slice? Then get it I'm holding my stomach, I'm shitting, I'm farting On any rapper thinking I'm in his vision, is you retarded? The CL got my head spinning awkward Bought it last month, 'bout to put it up for auction I'm not rapping, I'm talking powerful And for that dirty money, boy, the Mac'll shower you The Mac disintegrate, and then devour you The mag'll forget you, regurgitate and sour you I world trade you niggas, north and south tower you Steroid, my authority overpower you, the industry ain't affording me They might as well just give me my money and start ignoring me Cause y'all niggas boring me, y'all ain't making no dollars plus no cents I swear, y'all niggas foreign to me, foreigners I tell you what, go and tell it to the coroner Killing 'em whenever my performance come When I do it, it won't be nothing right after I'm done When I ruin niggas' careers, put you niggas in tears Get you pom poms, you better off, cheer for me Shit, the new money is here for me