Shit son, I stay hard hittin. This whole time I been workin dat body, nigga. You fittin’ ta crumble under the weight of these blows. You can bullshit around it, fuckin dance nigga, dance. But it ain't mean shit. You got some meaningless insults and some shit, but you ain't see me, cuh. But you best believe you ain't gonna be able to miss me when I'm done. Bet. You talkin bout how ain't nobody trying to hear what I spit, but nigga you all fucked up. The whole world loves hearin me smack fuckniggas like you around. Chris Hansen? Predator? Who da fuck you think I am, Michael Graves. Fuck naw, boi. That old rickety kiddy diddler ain't got a thing to do with me, that's for sure. I ain't keep that kinda company, son. Sounds like you reachin’ nigga, like you stretched too thin. I'm wearin that ass down, fuckin paper champ. That belt deserves a real nigga, not some peckerwood who jacks off his fuckin pet snake. Speaking of jack offs, I ain't mention selling a motherfuckin thing. Keep off that shit. Don't need Whitey up in here slapping cuffs on a nigga, then Killin my ass cause he THOUGHT some shit was bout to pop off.

I be smokin all day nigga, not slingin. I make my chedda, like I said by smokin niggas like you on the reg. You can't quit dis, mane. You done brought out the big guns, Poppin off like you got the means of defeatin a General when you just a foot soldier. Nigga learn your place, have some respect for the niggas that keep it 100.

So you keep tossing out nigga names, but you ain't called me Monday.

The sun's bout to go down, bedtime for El Grande.

There's that LONG HUGE FUCKIN’ INSATIABLE dick again, all up on your forehead region, holdin ya down for the pin.

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