Buncha Internet thugs running around. Acting too big for they britches Talking like they got shooters. Bro, ya'll goofy as fuck...... [Verse 1] I’m a be real G, nothing about to be mild// You look like divorce and Mr. Clean had a fucking love child// You a G? Bitch, you 5 foot three, acting pushy// I’ll turn you and your whole squad into my pocket pussy// A Real man putting belt to ass, that’s what you "N'joy"// (You sweet), I’m making you my new power bottom femboy// Pimp you on the block, I’m cozy in the caddie// Watch your tone with me, end every sentence with (Yes Daddy)// Speak when spoken to trick, lets keep it on the level// You a lightweight, the ice weigh more than you in the bezel// The Ruger itchy to leave you torn and split// Didn’t even wanna battle, but the whip need a hood ornament// I’m professor X, taking over ya cortex// ya momma giving me that top, (she getting the floor wet)// Pop ya top, now that's a gore set// Cops puking when they find ya body, stuffed inside the corvette// You chasing attention, but can't even attract respect// Bitch is you allergic to writting bars wit actual depth?// Every punch you throw, got shipping delay// Mine land overnight, (Thats priority spray)// That “G” on your chest, need air quotes applied// Real gangsters don’t advertise, they already verified// You poked at Seventh?.... yeah, that was cute// Now I’m the consequence at ya door, in a tailored suit// This a funeral service, no flowers requested// Career flatlined, I'll have ya heartbeat disconnected// You the type to rehearse beef in the mirror at night// I improvise murder with a flick of the mic// You flexing imaginary weight on the ‘Gram// I deadlift careers with a simple flick of my hand// Seventh ain’t need me, (but I like the exercise)// Consider this charity, community service vibes// I don't even need this many bars, cuz buddy a joke// G full of so much hot air, (I know the body will float}// I don’t even shout, just verbatim the quote// One chapter with me, (that’s murder she wrote)// [Outro] Don't worry lil homie I'll text ya clique hospital visitation hours. 32 bars, don't even need a rebuttal. This light work. First lame in The Ledger Next!
