I bet'cha derrière
Mad shook;

Crossing all the haters in the
pages of my black book.

We possess the minds of the killers and the mad crooks;

If you tryna cross us then you gonna
(Get yo ass whooped).

Lil Kydd
Givin hipster rappers a bad look;

In an empty lot smoking
pot like a bad cook.

Go ahead and crinkle up your noses
Get a tissue;

I'll be waiting till the sunrise
Chilling with the MacBook.

Saturn got the apps and they apt to
Get'cha stacks took;

Kamehameha
judo flip into a jab hook.

I'm a thorn in a
collective of your sides;

With my independent mind
And my independent strides.

As I'm walking through the cornfields
Scanning with my eyes;

Covered in animal blood and plenty of lion hide

I'm a devil in da skies (disguise)

The sun is on my shoulders

While Atlas wasted all of his time carrying boulders

Jaywalking shade talking miscreant

I'm the X factor master aster
Risk dapper rapper

Mix hard liquor and pop Advil
Tablets and potassium

Cyanide violet casket
in the ground The
fate of hatin masses

Fifth Hokage level flows
While you stuck in the academy

Put the flex to the beat like tae-bo

No 15 keep it hundred. No Geico

Kiddie killin from beginning to the outro

Catch this nigga shinin
But this nigga isn't Falco

Lookin unfamiliar
I don't recognize your style

You ain't one of my constituents
And you don't know my pals

So we take all of your bass
And we turn it into an alto

Sour notes
All of em are

Chrisses to a Malvo

Whether it's one over another
or equivalent number

It's corny rappers for supper I put'cha under

I'm linkin both of your cuffs up

...Suiting you in the casket facing your butts up

I'm approaching the music industry with a bottle of yellow tail

And some condoms I'm

Rhyming her into missionary position
Fixing to make a come up

In some slippers and a buttn'up (button up)

I'm treating rappers like my sons
I show them tough love

You gotta have the virtue and the mad guts

To don the trench coat, skinny jeans and the black gloves

If the gloves don't fit you must acquit

Step away from the mic, it's a pro tip

My heritage is like an airport
How can I not trip?

Me and my ancestors got gypped

I asked for my twenty acres
My people only got the one

No mule
but a plow, a pen and a empty gun

So I'm still breaking my back till I get my beach house, black cat

Sexy wife, nine daughters and one son

Sitting in the front lawn with a man bun

Some ski goggles, some Kung Pao chicken and pink ones

newfound knowledge on the flipping of my thumbs

How to slay a foe with kick drums
covered on page one


Watching Dora and Boots
Try to outsmart a crip fox

And make it cross town to give abuelita her fifth scotch

This is your brain on the stylings of
Saturn hip hop

Everybody got it backwards like I'm
Kriss Kross

I form a fat suit off the flesh of Rick Ross

Decked in all red
like Christopher Kringle and Miss Clause