Yeah. Picture that.
You can do it without the Insta-App.
Killing it, it's like I was given my instinct back.
They don't hear me, not entirely.
They can't stop the rivalry, nor the monster inside of me.
Walk on the side of beef. Open the page.
While you're stoking the flames? I'm over here, throwing grenades.
Live ammo. You think you can survive?
You'll die trying to ride, and it'll be like the Sci-Fi channel.
In what way you ask? Well, your death will be televised.
All you new jacks telling a web of lies, I am energized.
Killing all of your 77 wives, the writing is hardcore.
A titan, in a bar form. You're the flight of the Choncords.
What? Might have been on boards while you were sucking your thumb.
So whether functional, it's best not to puncture your lung, on the most punctual one. (Me)
I've been hustling dumb rappers, it's a hobby of mine.
Whether falling in line, y'all call it sublime.
A bottle of wine modeled after Aphrodite, courtesy of the appetite.
Pierce the flesh of an rhinoceros, and then bring him back to life.
That's the sacrifice.
It's all green, minus the traffic lights.
They give you food for thought, and all you see is the flashing ice.
All you see is the lavish life.
But don't know that it's at a price.
You got fucking lawyers now giving rap advice.
It's all financial. You'd be a fool to think...
it's in the best interest of you. That quite frankly means you're not thinking it through.
At first, a bunch of papers. They tell you to ink it.
Ya know, everything will be OK, just don't overthink it.
Your soul... fuck your soul, let it rot in hell.
You'll be millionaires. Yeah, that's what they thought as well.
"They" meaning they. Gray area.
Brain scarier than the pain, plagued by a scan. They're all dragging their hand.
