Rushy... Rushy... Rush! Aye aye aye Im a different animal, a whole 'nother mammal u think Im average? ur whole perspective's a scam, yo I speak in hieroglyphics, u talkin alphabet soup Im diggin fo ur soul with a prehistoric tool I see these heartless bastarwds, I see the void in their eyes I dont confront em, I jus baptize em in broken glass n wisecracks Aim fo the soul, proceed to blast the target's past Leave em ash n cartilage, a motherfckin disasterclass Ease past the garbage, the trash they talk is rancid We need that green regardless, like a addict need a cactus So please pass the garnish, Im servin plat' upon plat' My food fo thought is filet, ur best thought is an after-fat My gourmet is foreplay They tryna steal the recipe, end up with culinary apology They rarely witness this sincer-raw-ity, this honesty with fangs They 2nd guess the art, but the art is what remains Im with a spray can, taggin "Rushy was here" They lookin at the Mona Lisa, Im movin tier-1 gear Im the truth u cant deny, even with ur palms up, lyin Im the splash of hardness in a lukewarm puddle Turn ur spine to gravel, leave ur vocal cords in collapse Im speakin to the brash, the heartless, the emotionally bankrupt Deposit a truth bomb n watch their whole aura be ransomed They dont get the message, they jus see the madness (Rush!) They sleepin on the realness, they jus see the flashiness Im aimin fo the soul, u jus aimin fo the catalog (Blat!) I ease past the garbage, but I never miss the cash, dog! (Pass the garnish!) I verse better backwards, my reversi is perverse Im on some other sht, like an astronaut eatin astronaut ice cream My consciousness drown out ur whole dam team They tryna copy the recipe, end up with food poisonin Skeptically starin, I still gave em the best of me My monetary gain is a God-given donation I decorate plates with metaphors that'll melt ur palate I aim fo the jugular vein, but Im artful with it Tattoo my words on they brain—Picasso with the liquid! Foreplay, I four-K—screenplay to a 4th grave They 2nd guessin, but the 2nd’s what the Glock crave! they skeptical, but skeletons aint built fo dancin I feed em truth—now they stomachs do the panic chantin! Rushy... Rushy... Rush!
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