Yo— I’m smokin’ jet fuel laced with death threats, Strain got me glitchin’ like a meth test, Bong rips blast off, chest flexed, Clip full of hollows and a SeshTech. Purple Punch with a payload, Eyes low like the barrel on a Draco, I exhale napalm, strain make the brain go, Twist up the Biscotti like tornadoes. MAC-1 in a backwood—packed tight, Match light, face melt, hit that crack-pipe, This ain’t no dab, this is war gas, act right, Fifty-round drum spittin’ faster than a trap fight. (brrrrraaat!) Lemon Haze in a bong the size of Saturn, Rip that sh*t like a demon in a tavern, Wedding Cake stuffed with RSO pattern, And the AK kicks like a pissed-off stallion. Gelato 33, got the glass piece bubblin’, Buds look electric, terpenes rumblin’, Cherry Pie blunts got the sky all crumblin’, .44 bark loud like the Fourth, no mumblin’. (BOOM!) Zkittlez in the grinder, rainbow guts, Hollow tips spin like a Beyblade cut, Burnin’ White Widow while the pipe get stuffed, And the TEC make ‘em dance like a TikTok slut. (ratatatat!) Runtz so loud, neighbors callin’ dispatch, Got GSC in a dab rig mismatched, Twistin’ Grandaddy Purp while I click-clack, Two Glocks crossed like a stoner witch pact. Amnesia haze, I forgot your name, But I remembered the way that the Ruger bang, Cannabis clouds in my lungs like shame, And the smoke trail long as a RICO chain. I’m on that GMO funk with the gas mask on, Hit the dabs so hard, think my past life gone, I’m the Kush cartel in a blacked-out Yukon, And the pump got more kick than a mule on Tron. Cherry Diesel in a pipe with that hash drip, OG Kush got me feelin’ like a bad script, Banana Runtz in a Swisher, half lit, And the Draco lift spirits like a Baptist. (gunshot x2) Trainwreck, ridin’ in a doomsday van, With a 10-strip acid tab glued to my hand, Shootin’ Skywalker strain with a Colt in hand, While my pupils dilate like a stolen scan. Sour Diesel in a King Palm torpedo, Rippin’ fast like a Kawasaki Evo, Mix that with the shatter like a street-level kilo, Then dump the .30 clip like a Pacino sequel. Moonrock, live resin in a hollow point, Twistin’ up the Game Leaf, lightin’ joints, I’m the strain overlord, pain’s my voice, And the MAC-10 choir sing loud by choice. (click-clack-BLAM!) Got Ice Cream Cake with the Rosin drip, Keef crystals look like apocalypse, Bong so big, it’s a rocket ship, And the blunt look fat like a college chick. (smoke rip) King Louis XIII in a Dutch like royalty, Shootin’ shots through the haze with loyalty, Burn wax till the whole room boilin’ me, While the FN yell like it’s foilin’ me. Mimosa in the mornin’ with a tec on my lap, Ghost OG in the air while I set that trap, Blood Orange Tangie with the fire wax wrap, And the sawed-off pop like a boom-bap slap. Cannalope Haze got me vibin’ in spirals, Spinnin’ shells like vinyls, dope in the finals, Shoot first, then I light up the finals, With the blunt full of death and the aim of a psycho. Strawberry Cough got me bustin’ in cough fits, With a pound in the trunk and the Ruger in the cockpit, Sticky-ass resin on my hands like hot grits, And the gat kick hard like a Bronco mosh pit. Hit the Grape Ape, now the vision go slo-mo, Got the FN on my lap screamin’ YOLO, Rollin’ Do-Si-Dos in a Backwood solo, Then I air out the room like I’m blowin’ out Zolo. (ratatatatat!) Crack the lid off the grinder, it’s murder time, Blunt fat as a pig with a perma-grind, My strain list long like a murder rhyme, And my .45 talk like it’s certified. Smoke trails spiral like a Ouija chant, I’m the god of green in a diesel trance, Light sh*t up like a Taliban dance, And the MAC go wild like it never had chance. (click… click… BOOM!) Stoned off Face Off OG in a graveyard, Shells bounce off stone like Braveheart, Load the blunt with a BHO brain scar, And the beam red-hot like a flame bar. I’m on that Lava Cake—volcano lungs, Cherry fritter, same color as the blood that runs, Got enough wax to make the sun go numb, And the bullets write bars when the beat gets dumb. I ghost-ride whips while I toke that glue, Eyes roll back like the Reaper’s crew, Got a scope and a sack, and a fifth to chew, Blowin’ O’s while I aim, say goodbye to you. (final shot echoes) ⸻ (Beat fades. Wind blows. You hear the last puff… then silence.) This was murder with a grinder and a fully loaded clip.
