Includes disc and custom packaging depicting Riff Raff, Chief Keef, Lil B, Lil Wayne and Soulja Boy. Designed by MMDouglas.
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[Hook]
1, 2
Check 1, 2, 1 ,2
Who got more style than son do
None you
Name a crew that I ain't run thru
[Verse]
Ayo, fuck your bullshit rented range rover
Fuck your chauffer and them Gucci penny loafers
Most you rappers need Extreme Makeovers
I feel like Jay-Z when he recorded Takeover
I feel like Nas with that pent-up Ether
Rappers running round with Beiber-fever
My styles too tremendous to let garbage bars get spit
Ya’ll is walking targets kid
Ya’ll is ½ hearted, rap retarded and followers
Your lyrics suck dick, your beats just swallowed it
I'm the bully in the rap game right now
Watching ya’ll dweebs get smacked down
People say I’m too much of a battle hog
That I don’t write real tracks, they obviously ain't checked my catalogue
But I can’t just stick to the wall like Graviton
And watch ya’ll ruin these rap songs
Lyrical weapons drawn
Turn your life to a blur, no slur
About face and I’ll wet your back, no mexican
I'm finnin' to teach these kids
…Lesson’s taught
Quality in these bars is next to gone
Unless you dig deep in the underground
It’s like to hear a real emcee you got to damn near hunt them down
And bait the battle with wack raps so we emerge just to shut them down
[Hook]
1, 2
Check 1, 2, 1 ,2
Who got more style than son do
Finnin’ to melt this cheese, no fondue
[Verse]
Oh you hot? Let’s set it straight, set a date
Come and tussle with the lyrical heavyweight
You think you fly, Imma make you levitate
Crushing a rapper is the only way I can meditate
It relaxes me, it calms me
Bring your whole army, bitch, no one can harm me
While you “yada yada” bout your money or car keys
I sit back & smoke on these palm trees
I don’t play no games. Do I look like a clown or carnie
Hardly. And if you got beef like Arby’s
I burn like flames so you looking like charred meat
Can you fishy mother fuckers just like some sardines
You a toy, plastic boy. A Barbie, a play thing
I'm nothing less than amazing
With that
[Hook]
Microphone check 1, 2
Check 1, 2, 1 ,2
Who got more style than son do
No Ashton Kutcher, you coochie, but I will Punk you
[Verse]
Compared to you emo faggots
Big FЯK$ on that Deebo-status: that’s my mic, punk
Recognize, he’s no actress
But always on the scene like Brad Pitt. Save the theatrics
These rap kids out now is fictional
Painting false depictions of criminals, it’s pitiful.
I come out the corner swinging like Riddick Bowe. You Pacquiao
I’m a Mayweather, You’ll never match my style
You softer than a suede sectional
Bitch made rappers bow down and look up to my testicles
If you can’t rock the mic like a professional
Then I suggest you leave that rhyme book up on the dresser, fool
I can’t do no snapbacks & skinny jeans
Too concerned with wordplay & delivery
Any weak emcee come within an inch of me
l get up in his chest like a fucking anti-histamine
Westcoast, fresh flows, dub me Mr. Clean
If you heard some weak shit, It isn’t me
If I heard some dope shit, it isn’t you
Cuz you don’t really sound like the shit that we listen to
I spit the truth, rip the booth, fist your boo
Hit the bitch, dick her down, get a brew and split like…
[Outro]
Real shit
Dammitboy/Gutter Gold, mother fuckers
No more skinny jeans
No more techno beats
No more swag rap
