Yo— I’m twisted, lifted, higher than Orion’s ceiling, Mixin’ White Widow with that Gorilla Glue, peelin’, Rollin’ wax shatter in a blunt, feelin’ no pain, Hit the Lemon Haze, and I’m phasin’ through my own brain. Blue Dream bleeds through a cyclone cone, OG Kush got my chromosomes prone, Puffin’ on that Skywalker, zoned and alone, Inhale the Chrome, exhale the chrome—(gunshot!)—now they gone. AK-47 like the strain and the tool, Got both in the trunk and they equally cruel, Burnin’ Maui Wowie like it’s tropical fuel, While the 9 bark loud like a pit off the chain, no rule. Fire up the Durban Poison in a glass rig, Take a dab hit, rip it fast, like a drag pig, T.H.C. tidal waves got my brain lit, Like a Molotov spark when the flame hit—(BOOM!). Girl Scout Cookies, mix it with some Trainwreck, Mind runnin’ faster than a meth-head paycheck, Roll a baseball bat packed fat with that Moonrock, Then I light it like a barrel of a sawed-off Glock. (gun clicks twice) Toke heavy, exhale with a semi, Got the MAC-11 tucked under the hemp Chevy, Hittin’ bongs out the window, seat smellin’ deadly, Eyes redder than the dot on a scope—yeah, steady. Zkittlez in a blunt wrap, rainbow fade, Plus that Northern Lights got my aura in cascade, Critical Mass in a hookah, no brakes, Rippin’ Volcano bags full of smoke clouds great. Pineapple Express with a drip of hash oil, Plus a sprinkle of that Afghan soil, Bubblegum haze blowin’ rings like royalty, Got the Ruger by the roach, boy, don’t toy with me. (gunshot x2) Amnesia Haze got me lost in the fifth dimension, Jack Herer got me preachin’ like a weed convention, Chemdawg hits like a missile on a mission, And the MAC strain make me blackout like transmissions. Wake ‘n bake with Biscotti, full throttle, Sippin’ THC syrup from a purple glass bottle, Put the Sherbet in a leaf, watch me lean like a model, While the TEC-9 chatter louder than a toddler. (brrrrap brrrrap!) Candyland twisted in a Dutch like dreadlocks, With some Sour Diesel, eyes squint like dead clocks, Smokin’ Ice Cream Cake with a side of Glock, Got the .223 in the stashbox—(pop pop!)—tick-tock. Hit the Runtz hard, mix it with the Jet Fuel, Bong bowl glowin’ like the devil in a cesspool, I don’t pass the dutchie, homie, I bless fools, And the clip got more teeth than a test mule. Sticky with the GDP, meltin’ my face, Skywalker OG got me floatin’ through space, Got that Larry Bird strain, three hits and erase, With a shot like a sniper puttin’ feds in they place. (gunshot echo) Apple Fritter with a Cherry Pie wrap, With a hash cap on top like a cerebral trap, Every strain I name come laced like a trap, And the MAC-10 flame got the fiends yellin’ back. Slurricane swirl got the cyclone spin, Hoodie smell loud like a Kush-made sin, Hollow tips whistle like a high-strung violin, While the smoke trail thicker than the sins I’m in. Forbidden Fruit with the hash rock syrup, Torch that rig ’til the whole room stir up, I got cartridges loaded in a tray like churros, And the scope on the spliff got a beam like murals. Tropicana Cookies, mix with Ice Cream, Then I’m ghost like Sativa in a pipe dream, Coughin’ loud, then the semi go—(ratatatatat!) That’s shots and smoke, both hittin’ with impact. Wedding Cake got me married to the haze, And the Glock got a ring like it’s set in a blaze, Roll a Backwood thick like a magazine page, While my barrel do the talkin’ like it’s front-page rage. I’m high off Do-Si-Dos, leanin’ sideways, With a banana clip tucked in a hybrid driveway, Smoke trails spiral in them Purple Urkle highways, And the shrooms kicked in… (laughter fades), yo, it’s Friday. I roll with that GMO and them MAC cross strains, While the .45 spit like it hate all names, Got Biscotti in the blunt and some RSO flames, And the smoke sing lullabies while I let off chains. (chains rattle) Gushers, Ice Cream, plus that Lava Cake, Smokin’ out the casket, yeah, I levitate, Every hit’s a headshot—ain’t no need to debate, And the 9 keep barkin’ like it’s beggin’ for a plate. (gunshot x3) End this with a slow pull, French inhale, Eyes roll back like I’m mid-funeral wail, Got the gas and the gats, and I leave no trail, Just a cloud and a shell and a six-foot tale. (gun cock, lighter flick, big bong rip… silence) …Now that’s smoke and thunder, motherf***er.
