Another BR-via-NOLA MC spitting truth-bullets, from his Rise & Downfall.
Hey, yo! These soldiers made for walkin',
Not for talkin'.
Don't duck them bullets!
Hittin' Up-
Town, youngun?
No pardon.
A choppa in New Orleans
With no bodies,
That's a bargain!
Younguns who claim they "On"
Like light switches,
Get off often.
Oh, you flossin'?
Well, gimme yo gold chain,
What about them gold thangs
You talk about?
Talk slick:
Calico across the mouth.
[...]
Now, I know you don't live by it,
But I bet you die by the gun, Chief
Rocka Numba One
Leavin' em done,
Collapse a lung.
They lose sight
Throughout the legend
I've become
The mythological one.
Fear! They all troops
To run from.
When I come around the corner,
Call a coroner,
Lock yo daughters up,
Put the borders up.
Behold!
The microphone slaughterer.
Place a bomb in your tour,
And bust the 'uck out
You wack MCs
Should not
Have left yo nuts out-
Side is where the war at
But I'm bring it,
Writin' in doors
Where all you whores at,
Where you claim that,
You "doin in for the art,
And, you respect everybody all,
And, nobody whack, but uhhh..."
YOU SHOULD A NEVER PICKED THE MIC UP, JACK!
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