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MP3 4.3 MB • 128 kbps • 0:00
Story behind the song
it be mr x phabulouz the only lyrical kaniva
riddle you wit holes you aint gonna leave this rhyme a surviva
Mobb deep said it best aint no such things as halfway crooks
Son I tore your ass to pieces I got your other half look
Niggah you aint a full playa you just jp you just a piece holda
I spun you around misty eyed you nothing but a fake souljah
So take this Kleenex and wipe up your tears
Cause Your spit is grimey son you got whack ass rhymes all stuck up in my ears
Son you gotta be kidding me you be The embodiment of my fears?
the only thing you embody is james pyo known a pussy niggah by your peers
the only thing cutting up my eardrums be your constant bitch whining
you try and act hardcore but son we all know your white ass be lying
so throw away your sad excuse for an act its best you stop trying
ima finish you up and send you away all packed up and flying
niggah who you think you are calling me an f.o.b
born and bred usa ill tear you up indefinitely
the only thunder you got going on is thunder down under
must be the hormones raging because your entry in this game just be a blunder
you aint a major part in the game, you is just a piece holda
shook like you on ice son that’s why my rhymes aint got the burn on ya
niggah you aint nothing but a fucking pawn, you just a place holda
you keeping the spot warm until you faced up against me a real souljah
yeah son you scared to death scared to look you shook
writing rhymes in the corner with your little five star note book
got you so shook your breath starting to look real icy
you frozen solid kid I can cut you up real nicely
niggah you can talk about looking retarded in xanga pics
foo you act all gangster but in your pic you look like just some preppy ass prick
niggah please you gotta stop fronting because you be the one wit the ass kicked
you gotta make up your mind rich white kid or gangster you cant have both picked
son you think you superman but I be the kryptonite
ill rip you up so bad you aint going back home tonight
son you aint no fuckign batman outfit changing niggah
you a mentally ill patient and your report shows you getting sicka
if your verse be a crowbar then my face be cold steel
youll spit until your mouth dry but you aint leaving any dents
heres a bottle of water maybe this time youll almost make me feel
its like hitting a stick against concrete it aint making any sense
so stop fooling around and take your foot outta the game
everybodys wrecking you son and we despoiling your name
you getting killed son you aint gonna get a glimpse of the fame
you gonna get clapped real good next time you come and your flows the same
you left me wit crumbs son but that’s all you can offer to spare
I robbed you left you poor and complaining that life aint fair
its true son because when I spit it be real hip hop
you be needing those freestyle recitals cause your flow flip flop
dk aint wit you cause hes not one to put himself to shame
hes gonna join us when we roast your ass over this open flame
yeah son you scared to death you scared to look you shook
writing rhymes in the corner with your little five star note book
got you so shook your breath starting to look real icy
you frozen solid kid so I can cut you up real nicely
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