murda ink

Good morning folks/

I made you some rap-cakes, some flow-gurt, but no boring toast/

My flows formed the borders of the foreign coasts/

I know you dudes hear me, you can't see me, like a snoring ghost/

I heard you're a wildebeest/

I'm a wilder beast, I kill the beef/

Like it tried to sink its teeth/

Snarling, till I made that darn thing roast/

That's why all these rappers started/

Singing, like, "oh my darling,/

My scars scream out, 'My heart is broke!'"/

But don't sing to me, I got no sympathy/

For your symphony/

You sold sin so soon the sin police/

Will sound that "whoop-whoop-whoop"/

& you'll be the subject of their sentencing/

Period. Sim-simma, simmer down/

Send signals in your town/

Sin singles to the ground/

Singe cinders by the pound/

Since Simpsons been around/

Been winning spitting rounds/

10 seconds—that's the count/

Then Black is with the crown/

My words they are like swords mayn, so call me sensei/ 

'Cause that swordplay is my forte, comprende? "Si esé!"/

We tryna spur the champs like we SA, they waited for the chance to call the CIA/

But I A-M M.I.A. putting out heat like MIA/

You're a skateboard, I'm a hover board/

I space jam, you're trying to touch the board/

You eat chips with a crunchy core/

I eat chips from a motherboard/

Want to battle me? Well don't leave your mother bored/

Get a chair, let her cheer, you'll need some support/

So when you lose she'll be there like, "It's just a sport..."/

So tell my haters take a hiatus, no high ratings or signed papers or price ranges/

Could quite change us, I'd still die saying what Christ name is!/

Pledge that like Phi Betas, so hi hater—you said the Black wack?! You high hater,/

Bye hater! Talking 'bout "it goes both ways!" You a bi-hater!/

& they irate as Al Qaeda is, when I stated what the crime rate is/

But I seen them die, amate'rs (diameters) in my radius, while you hide with your eyes dilated/

I'll annihilate ya! Like saliva do Now & Laters/

But no 9s, all rhymes, you should know now, writing pages so you'll see who the Best Man—Sanaa Lathan/

You diggs/

In the streets they still separate by colors like apartheid/

Till they're swinging by the same clubs, I call that a par tied/

While half you catz who be yelling, "East side, west side, north side..."/

Are really just a joke, bumping car tunes (cartoons) on the far side/