Your raps have no substance, and your flow is a pain. My raps are going to run yours through, like a train.
You brag about your fame like it's a contagion, but all I get from hanging around you is first class retardation. Now get off my rapping pedestal.
Your hijack is nearly criminal, the crimes hardly subliminal.
Now chant my name, little butterboy and bring me all your so called bitches because damn do I need some sex toys.
17 years stiff I have been on this earth, and I'll give you just as many to give your raps any worth. (The revival is too strong.)