Your rhymes were a bin bag thrown
in the trash, couldn't even write a
         sentence, dyslexia of meaning


and ****** up sentences that
    weren't even spelt write.

Couldn't even spin a line,
   as it was meant to be straight


but your words were more wavy than
                a bad perm.



  There isn't room for a failed wanna be,

                    alone in your room *******
hard,

But your more empty than the raisin
                   ***** your trying to spit out of...

Non consequential wording that doesn't flow
down stream,
                   more like your floating bloated
breath  releasing putrid gas

that stinks more than what they were belching out.


I never insult the cadavers of dead lines,

but your words were buried even before
          you opened that hurse of dead beats.

a handful of rhymes that were more powerful than
           your buried career,

sorry you were a foot in the grave even before you
                                                   opened your mouth.


Song I wrote after I used your girl..


I wasn't the one she wanted it was you,
                but I gave her what she wanted

and that never included you..

Every thing you wanted I stole,
  and gave her fake wishes that were
tarnished but she never looked beyond
                 the moment seeing the stitching
of us was more fake than the smiles I gave her.

I knew she wanted to be with you,
   but I was the salesman of woman..

While you were the boy next door, I was the salesmen
                     showing her fake dreams..

Don't worry you can have her after I've used her enough,
          I'll even trade her in for a good price..

Ye, she'll be broken..

           But everything is always defective
after I've rode it enough...

Her crown maybe cracked,
  but she'll be yours even though she'll be thinking
of me even though your in her, I'm the length
        she'll remember but she'll be your crack queen.

Now this is enough of wording.

                   and I'm moving on to the next one.

You were coming at me like you
                               got crew.
But you all boys, not men you
              pretend to be.

More like a baby sitting club,
         sitting watching Sesame Street.



Well I got crew,

and guess what,
             there counting down


on you and your
                                                               boys.


One dead, two dead, three and four,
    you still bad mouthing us... guess what
                        we got more finger to count more.

5,6,7,8 more crew sleeping in the morgue..

Guess what you ain't got no crew no more.

You the big yellow bird squawking like you got
     room in your cage, but my boys caught you.

Now we plucked that attitude from your feathers,
                  I don't hear disrespect  just tears that fall.

I'm the cookie monster and I'm all street,
                     I'll eat up your neighbourhood
and you you'll be selling crumb's on the
corner for me.


         I'm the monster that your mum
said would be scaring you.