High Noon

country, country rap, Wild West rap, spaghetti western rap, Wild West hip hop, hee haw

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V4.5

And I haven’t began, bitch I’m just crackin’ my knuckles,
Spit wide spread buckshot while your posse buckles.
Got a scowl like Eastwood and a fuck-you gait,
With a quick draw full of heat and a middle finger to fate.
I’ll spit in your mouth and say “thank me later,”
Ride your buzz to the ground like a pissed-off gator.
I’m the bastard they warned you not to quote 
I’ll rip your fuckin’ head off and piss down your throat.
Swagger like Billy and more sick than the plague,
Dismember your torso, then hit a home run with your head and leg.
This ain’t showbiz this is grime and grit,
I wipe my boots on your shit rhymes, bitch.
I don’t beg for a stream, I demand a duel,
Shoot insults at your mama just to keep shit cruel.
I’ll choke slam a critic through a church bench pew,
Then light up a blunt with their Sunday school cue.
I’m a fuckin’ outlaw with a God complex,
Draw tits in the sand where you left your tracks.
Every rhyme’s like a molotov lobbed with spite,
Your whole squad soft and fart louder than y’all write.
I roll into town like I own your debts,
Whorehouse tabs and Russian roulette bets.
I’m the worm in your shot glass, gunpowder tongue,
The type to shoot a sheriff just to piss off his son.
I’m pissin’ on graves of the SoundCloud saints,
With a toothpick grin and some bourbon-stained complaints.
Fuck fame I’m the high plains drifter they bury alive,
Still cussin’ in the coffin, middle fingers high.
I swing through the verse like a barroom chair,
Splittin’ heads wide open if they dare to just stare.
I ain’t no legend I’m a goddamn disease,
With a snarl that curdles milk and a verse that’ll pop your knees.
You don’t want smoke, I got cigars and war,
With my dick in my hand and a boot through your door.

You pulled steel? Cool I ain’t flinch or duck,
I just laughed, lit a match, and say, “You’re fucked.”
Swung a bottle at your jaw just to check your chin,
Then pissed on your boots while I counted to ten.
I don’t rap for fans I spit to offend,
Break bottles on your spine, then dick your girlfriend. 
You a one note bitch with a coward’s stance
I been raw since I slid out my mom’s pants
That’s right doctor tried to slap me, I bit his hand,
Then told that bitch nurse I was born the man.
You want clout? Eat shit. I don’t fuck around.
I’ll uppercut your teeth through your fragile crown.
I’m Doc Holliday in a mood with no meds 
Throw a sawed off verse in your unwashed threads.
Got no filter just rage and rum,
With a dead man’s aim and a forked-up tongue.
I’ll spit in your mouth while I fuck your pride,
Snap your ego in half in a wink of an eye.
You like views? Then die on live.
I’ll stream your bitch-ass gaspin’ just to prove I thrive.
I ain’t no hero I’m the villain that wins,
That slick scumbag with the bloody grin.
I’ll snort your ashes off a church piano
While I play out your death in soprano.
I’m unholy a mistake in God’s plan,
With a six-word curse and a backhand slap.
Bitch, I burn like a hangover boil,
While you dance like a muppet in aluminum foil.
Go ahead send shots, I’ll eat your rounds,
Then spit back hot with some bile and coffee grounds.
This is Westworld’s bastard Clint’s relapse,
With a blade in my boot and some brass for dirt naps.
If my name’s in your mouth, then swallow it whole,
But don’t choke when you taste what can’t fit down your throat.

4556/7500

When I step in a saloon at high noon Time for buffoons to die soon. Blue ripped jeans with spurs on my feet, in case I kick you in the cheek. Sippin’ whiskey while tippin’ my Stetson, when givin’ your girl a wink. I’ll have her in assless chaps when I rap knock out that sass with a cactus bat. It’s quite humbling… I’ll have her moanin’ with her eyes rollin’ like tumbleweeds. I’m old school, like Hawaiian shirts. Round up your posse like Wyatt Earp. Reducin’ your sounds to quiet chirps, spittin’ words like grandpappy’s tobacco So watch out for the splash, cuz when I clash I’m wacko high off scorpion venom and Paxil Stay outta this herd, or else you’ll get trampled. Breakin’ your swords with lyrical bullhorns Like what you’d find on my mantle, next to the burnin’ candles. I keep my weapons on display, my whole artillery array So stay outta my way. Phasers are set to kill, not stun. You got it, hombre? A six-shooter rhyme pistol in each hand, A cool diss in each chamber that burns when they land. The kiss of death flows as you’re stamped with a hole—that’s my brand. With blood drippin’, you trippin’—put an end to all that lippin’. ‘Cause I’m cold like the scotch that I’m sippin’. I’m a kingpin. Call me Woody Harrelson. And I haven’t began, bitch I’m just crackin’ my knuckles, Spit wide spread buckshot while your posse buckles. Got a scowl like Eastwood and a fuck-you gait, With a quick draw full of heat and a middle finger to fate. I’ll spit in your mouth and say “thank me later,” Ride your buzz to the ground like a pissed-off gator. I’m the bastard they warned you not to quote I’ll rip your fuckin’ head off and piss down your throat. Swagger like Billy and more sick than the plague, Dismember your torso, then hit a home run with your head and leg. This ain’t showbiz this is grime and grit, I wipe my boots on your shit rhymes, bitch. I don’t beg for a stream, I demand a duel, Shoot insults at your mama just to keep shit cruel. I’ll choke slam a critic through a church bench pew, Then light up a blunt with their Sunday school cue. I’m a fuckin’ outlaw with a God complex, Draw tits in the sand where you left your tracks. Every rhyme’s like a molotov lobbed with spite, Your whole squad soft and fart louder than y’all write. I roll into town like I own your debts, Whorehouse tabs and Russian roulette bets. I’m the worm in your shot glass, gunpowder tongue, The type to shoot a sheriff just to piss off his son. I’m pissin’ on graves of the SoundCloud saints, With a toothpick grin and some bourbon-stained complaints. Fuck fame I’m the high plains drifter they bury alive, Still cussin’ in the coffin, middle fingers high. I swing through the verse like a barroom chair, Splittin’ heads wide open if they dare to just stare. I ain’t no legend I’m a goddamn disease, With a snarl that curdles milk and a verse that’ll pop your knees. You don’t want smoke, I got cigars and war, With my dick in my hand and a boot through your door. You pulled steel? Cool I ain’t flinch or duck, I just laughed, lit a match, and say, “You’re fucked.” Swung a bottle at your jaw just to check your chin, Then pissed on your boots while I counted to ten. I don’t rap for fans I spit to offend, Break bottles on your spine, then dick your girlfriend. You a one note bitch with a coward’s stance I been raw since I slid out my mom’s pants That’s right doctor tried to slap me, I bit his hand, Then told that bitch nurse I was born the man. You want clout? Eat shit. I don’t fuck around. I’ll uppercut your teeth through your fragile crown. I’m Doc Holliday in a mood with no meds Throw a sawed off verse in your unwashed threads. Got no filter just rage and rum, With a dead man’s aim and a forked-up tongue. I’ll spit in your mouth while I fuck your pride, Snap your ego in half in a wink of an eye. You like views? Then die on live. I’ll stream your bitch-ass gaspin’ just to prove I thrive. I ain’t no hero I’m the villain that wins, That slick scumbag with the bloody grin. I’ll snort your ashes off a church piano While I play out your death in soprano. I’m unholy a mistake in God’s plan, With a six-word curse and a backhand slap. Bitch, I burn like a hangover boil, While you dance like a muppet in aluminum foil. Go ahead send shots, I’ll eat your rounds, Then spit back hot with some bile and coffee grounds. This is Westworld’s bastard Clint’s relapse, With a blade in my boot and some brass for dirt naps. If my name’s in your mouth, then swallow it whole, But don’t choke when you taste what can’t fit down your throat.

0/500