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When it's time to attack, I move in slowly for the kill/

Flexing tighter than Arnold, to elevate my hidden skills/

Buldging with muscular proportions, that eventually rip my clothes/

No time to show love to friends or so called verbal foes/

My flows, revolve around the passion for for this art/

I have to carry my lyrics, within a farmer Jack shopping cart/

My writtens are more abundant, than water to this earth/

Yet, I still release key and freestyles, like I have since my birth/

I'm the sick type, pick your sores while playing in dirt/

Sorry about the curse, but my magic is painted in black/

I hate to be challenged by emcees, whose lyrics are worse than wack/

Send your weakened version back, to the factory from which you came/

You're not a rapper, you sing and dance like you should be in fame/

I'm untamed, like a drunken general in wars of lands/

The penacle of ill lyrics, making pens and paper fall from your hands/

I've arisen from my bed of death, to deliver the illest tactics/

Flossing nothing but my teeth, and a pair of semi-automatics/

The only chrome piece I need, is the on upon my tongue/

Throwing bullets from my tonsils, as quick as blacks get hung/

Raw like a cancer patients lungs, covered in black since my conception/

Forcing the devil out of hell, taking over, through ways of deception/

I can't believe my recollections, telling me I've come along way/

Even with my basic rhyme patterns, I've had a strong word play/

Remember on AKA, when ill lyrics ruled the domain of artists?/

I was rookie on the board, still labeled one of the hardest/

Are you retarded, you must be if you try to claim my style is played/

I'll fuck your mind over, the newest way to say that you've been layed/