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[Verse 1: Jarren Benton]
Yeah
Jarren Benton
What’s up y’all, how the fuck y’all feeling?
Yeah, I hope I don’t offend nobody with this shit man
Check it out
Yeah
I used to be broke as fuck, whipping a Honda Accord with 2 spinners/
Dick stayed between your bitch’s dress, no Bruce Jenner/
Igniting crack pipes with flames from butane/
Bitches used to play me to the left, said I was 'too strange’/
Now I’m getting head from Cali hoes and smoking new strains/
Ran a couple trains on foreign bitches out in Ukraine/
Trying to be an honorary member of Wu-Tang/
But I’m throwed off like Uday and Qusay Hussein/
Fuck up your future/
I’ll shoot the Ruger through your Uber/
I sift through cow manure for shrooms, out his medulla/
I’ll sit in the car get head while I listen to Gwar/
I’ll punch through your fucking chest and kick my leg through your heart/
The illest lyricist, smack a rapper for spitting gibberish/
Hopsin never take me in public cause I’m too niggerish/
Ay, fuck the police with Eric Garner’s dead dick/
I need mass quick, snapping necks like breadsticks/
These new rappers a bunch of faggots and fuck boys/
Ay, I bet you these niggas fuck boys/
Fake thugs, Gustos, CB4/
I talked to 'Pac with a Ouija board, Hail Mary/
Ay tell that bitch to shut the fuck up when the song play/
Dyslexic; throw up gang signs the wrong way/
And drugs got me having 'out of body’s/
I kill a rapper, drop the corpse off in Abu Dhabi/
I’m doing donuts on a Kawasaki/
I’m with your bitch sipping sour sake/
[wtf happened here?]/
Ay nigga try me I kill you and fucking hide the body/
I date old white bitches that do mal-Pilates/
Uh, Tech’ll blow you to Reese’s Pieces/
Put you on a Stairway to Heaven and have you meeting Jesus/
Funk Volume the squad, salute to my nigga, getting cake/
Catch a bitch nigga and snuff him like Diddy did Drake/
Benton! We in this bitch!
[Verse 2: CyHi Da Prynce]
Yuh… LA y’all ready?! Okay
Huh
I see you nigga’s green, night goggles/
I’m a activist, I belong in a Sprite bottle/
I write novels, the last testament/
Thou said to Prynce, „you won’t find these verses in Christ’s Bible”/
My pistol ain’t got no body like a white model/
I don’t listen to rap niggas cause I like gospel/
I grew up with some Night Riders; David Hassellhoff/
Who won’t stop rapping white; Asher Roth/
Involved with albatross at the Travel Lodge/
Niggas try to sabotage a nigga catalogue/
Your sheep ain’t herd; my wolves will knock the cattle off/
Leave your whole neighborhood wet; it’s raining cats and dogs/
The rest of the survivors to the casa/
On tour with nothing but riders on my rider/
Whoever knew Duna was the driver of that Sonata/
That I would have so much truth inside my saliva/
Niggas throwing shade in my face, just like this visor/
So I got some partners that’re killers so I advise ya/
Not to fuck with young Elijah, cause my guys’ll/
Throw the body in the trunk and lake ’em like As-salamu/
Huh, we the saviors of our genre/
Huh, to bring the youth to the truth, is our honor/
From youngsters out in Ghana reliving Hotel Rwanda/
I can’t sleep cause there’s kids with nowhere to slumber/
We should give Nobels to mommas and women who held us under/
I know my momma worry, from my past of life’s crimes/
I still use a notepad when I’m writing my rhymes/
Cause literally, I put my life on the line/
I’m out this bitch/
[Verse 3: Joell Ortiz]
Team Backpack, What’s up?!
Yaowa
I wrote this last night in my bed/
Cause they’ve been sleeping on me people said/
Funny cause I could do this standing on my head/
I can’t stand y’all like 2 bad prosthetic legs/
Something like an OG, just a newer version of the old me/
Hungrier than I was back in ’03/
Got a little change, but I ain’t changed, niggas know me/
But the Rollie do shine while I’m holding up an O.E./
This thing here locked, you would think Joell a Rasta/
These niggas queer, they career’s on a teleprompter/
Bunch of gimmicks, motherfuckers couldn’t tell a chopper/
From a fifth, cause when I said that, they thought helicopter/
I tired of looking left and right. We made a left, right?/
And now I feel like everything that’s left ain’t right/
If you a up and coming rapper, here’s the best advice/
Chill out, I’m running the show without a extra mic/
I’m telling you God spoke to me/
He said „little man, listen closely, I gave you most of me/
Therefore you’re way more than man’s supposed to be/
Hopefully you reach supreme Yaowa” I said, „hopefully!”
Every track is hard/
I’ll single-handedly crack your squad in half for having average bars/
What’s a battle scar?/
I’m unscathed, I should smash guitars/
On your bum waves, or tangle your dumb braids for how trash you are/
Niggas probably like, „Ortiz spazzing” it’s just me rapping/
In a rush, I got a mean bad one waiting on me in the meat packing/
I’m bringing keys to the dream/
In case I’m the key to her dreams and she need me packing/
I been listening to the streets yapping/
Putting Gucci stickers on my laptop, you know, G-Macking/
See skill is something you will never see me lacking/
That’s a selfie in church clothes, picture me slacking/
I tried to tell y’all dumbasses/
In ’07 I make these niggas step on their white sunglasses/
Now we turning to Smurf Village, y’all let it/
But Gargamel been doing barbell presses/
I’ll stomp your little movement, crush your little cave/
Turn your wave to a ripple in a puddle near your grave/
I know the real you, the real you, so behave/
Without the lies and cameras you don’t want that action backstage/
I’m on my real new york shit, four-fifth careful where you walk shit/
Cause you could turn chalk next to dog shit/
Where I’m from we’re awkward, look Khalid, a coffin/
Spitting up your organs on your way to being corpses/
Every other day I stood around some shit that make you nauseous/
Buck 50, son cheek falling while he talking/
Dead woman walking, wish I saw the class portrait/
Shorty used to be bad that dope made her a monster/
Y’all niggas know, y’all niggas whack rap/
I put this cypher in my knapsack, nigga this Team Backpack/
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