Yeahhh… Grew up with trauma and trichomes, Twistin’ that trauma OG in a cyclone, Bong rips big as a pipe bomb—eyes gone, Mixin’ my madness with hash till my mind’s gone. I been smokin’ on strains like a surgeon with blades, Every hit cut deep in the frame like a raid, Roll a Cannarado blunt, now I’m lost in a maze, Got a TEC in the tub and a 12-gauge grenade. White Widow in a wedding veil, With a side of Runtz like a felon’s tale, Eyes bloodshot like I’m readin’ Braille, And the MAC got a kick like a demon yell. Sativa schemes in a silencer burst, Spray rhyme clips with a violent verse, Indica hit got my spine reversed, But the Glock still speak in a Bible curse. Burnin’ Jungle Cake while I juggle fate, With a Snubnose tucked in a duffle plate, If a hater want smoke, he can suffocate, I exhale death like a troubled saint. (inhale, exhale, GUNSHOT) Lava Cake drippin’ on the RAW cone’s filter, T.H.C. loaded like a warzone killer, Twist wax like a ritual – folklore thriller, Then I spark the tip with a four-prong pillar. Mixin’ Gushers and Gelato, call it “God’s Punch,” Got the Zookies in my bloodstream, lung’s lunch, Pistol got a red dot bigger than a nun’s hunch, And the shrooms got me talkin’ to my blunt—“yo, crunch.” Flippin’ flows like I’m harvestin’ clones, Each bar weigh a zip in the garden zone, Rollin’ Keef in the leaf with a cartridge thrown, Then I aim at the stars like my target’s home. Wedding Cake layered with Lemon Meringue, Put the blade to the bud like a lion with fangs, Then I load the grenade full of Afghan Bang, And the blunt get lit like a Vatican pang. (brrrrraaaat!) I be chiefin’ on Cap Junky—strain from Saturn, Got a beam on the tip like a dragon lantern, My gun’s bipolar, one chamber’s cancer, Other side spit wisdom like a rogue Black Panther. I’m zoned off Tangie, talkin’ to trees, Moonrock mind with a Kush disease, MAC-11 sing loud like Alicia Keys, While the smoke pirouette like a priest on E’s. Hustlin’ hash like it’s Wall Street war, Quarter pound split like a civil score, Every eighth I name is a metaphor— For the shell that I drop when the chamber roar. Cherry AK with a Death Star crumble, Smokin’ God’s Gift in a glass jar tunnel, Flashbang tokes, lungs loud like a rumble, And the shells tap dance like the devil did the shuffle. (*click, click, BLAM) Burn Biscotti with the propane flame, I spit more fire than a dope vein vein, Every bar got a scope, every rhyme got aim, And the silencer purr like a soul in pain. I’m on that hardcore ice cream mudslide, Mixin’ Jack Herer with a blunt full of hubris pride, Blackout strain got my conscience denied, And the .50 cal laugh like it knew who died. (maniacal echo) Smoke spin thick like a ritual chant, Strain so rare, it don’t even have a plant, I exhale hexes, wordplay slant, Then reload bars like a verse implant. Sour Tsunami got me surfin’ in static, Double-barrel bars with a rhythm that’s manic, Smoke from the soul—no gimmicks, just panic, And the drumline drop like a drill sergeant frantic. Ghost Train Haze in a chalice of ash, Mind movin’ like a baller with a palace of cash, Bulletproof flow, no challenge could crash, And the blunt got a plot twist—vanish and flash! (GUNSHOT x3 rapid) Cannabis Christ in a Garden of Death, Smokin’ Angel Dust out a bong named “Meth,” Roll a Strawberry Banana till there’s no breath, Then I baptize the clip like a martyr’s theft. Glock talk fluent, it spit in rhyme schemes, AR buzz like a locust in a crime dream, My blunt got legs, it walk on time beams, And the hash got me dancin’ in divine screams. No brakes, no peace, no mercy left, Smoke trails spiral from the furnace depth, I lace Moonrock with the serpent’s breath, And the verse too sharp—every word’s a death. ⸻ (beat slows to a crawl… one last breath… echo) Click… clack… BANG. “That’s just the first sesh.”
