I mastered The Art of War before a nigga read Sun Tzu,
Third degree black-belt, master of Gun-Fu.
Pop pills, smoke weed, even get drunk too;
And you do what you can, and I do what I want to.
Tag Archives: Boot Camp Clik
Dutch in my ear, Olde E in my palm,
I Freddy Krueger your face, Michael Myers your moms.
You botherin mine? That’s when I’m sparkin the nine.
You can tell by the rhyme it’s my time to shine;
Let’s eat, motherfucker, I don’t dine on swine.
I don’t beef with turkeys, I told you the God’ll fold you,
Hard to digest: I suggest that you take tofu.
Ayo, the arm bone connected to the hand bone,
Nigga, the hand bone connected to the damn chrome!
Fuck Batman and Robin: I’m robbin’ with a bat, man.
Another day, another burial,
Got you wondering ’bout the day when they bury you.
Tear drops stain the Wally’s that you rockin’,
On the block, candles burn, guns poppin’.
Before I lay my head down to rest,
I roll up a nickel sack of cess to relieve the stress.
Dutch in my ear, Olde E in my palm,
I Freddy Krueger your face, Michael Myers your moms.
You botherin mine? That’s when I’m sparkin the nine.
You can tell by the rhyme it’s my time to shine;
Let’s eat, motherfucker, I don’t dine on swine.
I don’t beef with turkeys, I told you the God’ll fold you,
Hard to digest: I suggest that you take tofu.
Wake up: all of that ‘crack in the street’ talk?
It’s made up, like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
I don’t like thugs, I don’t like nerds,
I don’t like myself and I hate bein’ disturbed.
Ayo, the arm bone connected to the hand bone,
Nigga, the hand bone connected to the damn chrome!
Niggas’ rap albums sound like love letters,
Pen in my hand, like: damn, fam, I could do much better.
Gangsta rappers can’t fight, so they rap about guns.