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This boy's so nice, and my rhymes are sick
You could sell any of my bars, and it'd be gold on a stick
I might not be Jin, don't call me no mimic
But my flowin' so ill, it'd be carsinogenic
I'm not paid to do this, and I'm not a gimick
I don't play by the rules, so I'll I can drop a rap, a poem, or a limerick
You can fear it
I don't do this for dollars, cuz there's no money in it
But my mind's still expanding, who knows what's the limit?
When I listen to your whack ish, I just skim it
Duck, run, hide, 'cuz you scared; timid
Your dough is so small, it's like a timbit
My money grows on trees, and it's time to trim it
You drop like 3rd world B-ballers, take a shot, rim it
Your last 16s were nice, psyche, try limp buscuit
It sounded so bad, Rippley's believe it or not wanted to come and film it.

....One. posted by losir at 12:55 AM