like automatic handguns, You can't run Your style is more garbage than Shirley Manson You got a platinum single, roll me your money I'm bummy but I bet I can get your
the coach see your grades he ain't holding your spot (COME ON!) I got plans to leave my neck and hands frozen with rocks So every bitch watch when I pose
on your hood kid I shitted on your hood, got to your burner too late I'm lookin real good, draped out Shinin like a fresh fifty cent piece, your girlfriend
cure, not a curse and I'm still drawn by the kid in the corner and the lovely angels alone on benches I'm still making pleas to the kid whose clothes
No matter what your name is, bitch I make you famous A lot of bitches swear shit's sweet But when I creep I'ma lace you from your head to your fuckin
to the O-B-O You didn't know, I witness ya thoughts I'm Robodendo But your inventions confuse me on the surface Ya nervous, because your lack of purpose
Chop! Yo, I can't stop This the type of shit that you pump on your block [King Just] Off top, I came to blow the whole spot Solid as a rock, my whole