Lyrics
(Yea) Straight out the laboratory with another horror story
R.I.P. Squad the reason why your homies 'gon be pouring forties
Ready to go to war, you're 'bout to get your final warning shortly
'Cause after that I'ma strike just like lightning
You've got a hefty price on your life, my knife's slicing
Through all the rappers looking to bite like Mike Tyson
Studying my style, 'cause on mics I'm quite trifling
It's the Illest Lyricist, y'all know what the business is
I'm flyer than the house that ended up landing on the Wicked Witch
The verses that I spit consist of dark lines with pain inside them
Haven't been the same since I escaped from the insane asylum
I'm on a mission, all these haters trying in vain to stop him
Gifted, you lames are just the product of a tainted condom
The chosen one aka the Reaper's oldest son
The one who almost froze the Sun, skill level close to none
This ain't for only one rapper in particular
My message is for anyone whose path is perpendicular
You're chasing fame, so you lames turn commercial
You can shine for a summer, but our flame burns eternal
My weapons are flesh eating, pop shots and leave your vest weakened
Penetrate and have your chest leaking like you're breast feeding
Blow you into next weekend, f- that, next season
I suggest leaving 'fore you be in Heaven guest speaking
Slip on the ski mask and creep past my enemies
Checking out my green grass, mcs fast to mimic me
Copying my style is a cheap path to victory
So when I'm on top, I'ma teabag the industry
Your town will surely want to cop the album early
I belong on mics like a Bulls or a Falcons jersey
Them other rappers say they're nice with the pen
But you can find better rhymes in my recycling bin
Ain't too many left alive who's spitting these rhymes rapidly
You couldn't be this fly unless you defy gravity
Beat me in my prime? You're living a wild fantasy
Go ahead and try, but I bet you gon' die tragically
I'm ready for war, my dresser drawer is a weapon store
And when I grip the glock, you'll be n- knocking on Heaven's door
This ain't a metaphor, not some little dumb rap
Tell me go to Hell (Ha) been there, done that
Disappear in thin air, come back, one lap
Your chance at winning is thinner than chin hair
Fun fact: My flow's HIV- How Ill Very
Even when I'm 6 feet under, my sound still carries
D-Beast keeping count of all you clowns we'll bury
Five 3 masked up like the brown Jim Carey
N- sound real scary, screaming to plead your innocence
We're riding down your avenue, creeping like senior citizens
Read in between the sentences, when drama's in the building
B- hesitate to stand behind bars like a prison sentence
Never sleep, grind hard, strive until the finish
Ain't no competition, by far, I'm the illest in this
Got the game wrapped up, nah, this a hit stick
Lyrics R-rated, and you p- n- chick flicks
Everything I spit's sick, front, and get your s- split
Click click bullseye, now you look like Slick Rick