Check a scene so intense you could feel it on your sixth sense//
Bullets I dispense and then I burn bodies up like a lit incense//
Can’t afford to leave fingerprints cuz these “Nextel” love to “sprint”//
These Graphic rhymes be as vivid as a Kodak photographic print//
Spittin fire till the wire in the mics exposed other rappers cant be juxtaposed//
Leave bodies decomposed for thinking they can’t be “Shot” without a “pose”//
Heard your sons “pitching” gods dirt now they call it angel dust//
If he “Strikes out” with the wrong nigga them glocks mite combust//
A few Shots to the chest I’ll make him holier than a priest//
Momma standing over a closed casket her son victim to the beast//
I’m sorry miss I had to let a few shots touch your son’s intelligence//
Cause he thought he was fucking with me tried to explain I was celibate//
Just to let you know your sons chest spread like confetti//
Then I spilled enough off her blood to cover spaghetti//
Peep game I stood with my crew looking so supreme//
Two shots rang out heard a scream realized…it was all a dream//