trap.
02-01-2013, 07:13 PM
Nebs
“Ya no one till someone kills you,” that sentiment’s righteous
And son you bout ta suffer an identity crisis...
This tourney’s got me, turnin’ merciless, viscious
N*gga, you’ll only see the second round, if the first bullet misses
Fuck Jesus & shepards, or acknowledgin’ beatin’s
It’s the holiday season…my firearms are leavin ya peppered
& fuck maiming & beating—my chamber explodes
And bullets get arranged into Rose, like the shit was stadium seating
Don’t mention accounts, I’ve so much in store
Bitch, ya so fuckin poor ya deathbed’ll fold into a couch
Ya worth is not deep—it’s not a shock when ya find
That ya fuckin pockets is lined…like a verse from Nasif
Ya only feelin rap-cuz-ya-think: “it’s African art”
Bitch I’ll drain the black from ya heart, like healin’ damage ta Link
Merkin this dumb shit's some shit I'm certainly done with
Muhfucka, I already won...this is just a courtesy couplet
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Rose
If you think you gonna win, Stop Believin', fuck what Journey plays
And lick on my balls like that chick up on the tourney page
Cause ROSEnberg's here, about to give your ass a greetin' call
So think again kid, cause you ain't Never Ever Beatin' Sol
You meet your Fall in the Winter, but my Spring has sprung
Everything's comin' up Roses, thorns are stingin' some
Nebs gets Snow'd like Aurora, fucked in Bring'Um Young
And once that ass has been tapped, you're blown to Kingdom Come
The gig is done, when you look under the Christmas tree
Looks like you got everything except the victory
You got Scrooged like Bill Murray with an ill flurry
Vision got snowblinded and it's still blurry
Find yourself a Kwanzaa tourney, I rule this Christmas joint
If you think you still got a chance, kid, you missed the point
And the only mistletoe's my foot firin' up your shitter
I'm Bad Santa, here's your last role like John Ritter
“Ya no one till someone kills you,” that sentiment’s righteous
And son you bout ta suffer an identity crisis...
This tourney’s got me, turnin’ merciless, viscious
N*gga, you’ll only see the second round, if the first bullet misses
Fuck Jesus & shepards, or acknowledgin’ beatin’s
It’s the holiday season…my firearms are leavin ya peppered
& fuck maiming & beating—my chamber explodes
And bullets get arranged into Rose, like the shit was stadium seating
Don’t mention accounts, I’ve so much in store
Bitch, ya so fuckin poor ya deathbed’ll fold into a couch
Ya worth is not deep—it’s not a shock when ya find
That ya fuckin pockets is lined…like a verse from Nasif
Ya only feelin rap-cuz-ya-think: “it’s African art”
Bitch I’ll drain the black from ya heart, like healin’ damage ta Link
Merkin this dumb shit's some shit I'm certainly done with
Muhfucka, I already won...this is just a courtesy couplet
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Rose
If you think you gonna win, Stop Believin', fuck what Journey plays
And lick on my balls like that chick up on the tourney page
Cause ROSEnberg's here, about to give your ass a greetin' call
So think again kid, cause you ain't Never Ever Beatin' Sol
You meet your Fall in the Winter, but my Spring has sprung
Everything's comin' up Roses, thorns are stingin' some
Nebs gets Snow'd like Aurora, fucked in Bring'Um Young
And once that ass has been tapped, you're blown to Kingdom Come
The gig is done, when you look under the Christmas tree
Looks like you got everything except the victory
You got Scrooged like Bill Murray with an ill flurry
Vision got snowblinded and it's still blurry
Find yourself a Kwanzaa tourney, I rule this Christmas joint
If you think you still got a chance, kid, you missed the point
And the only mistletoe's my foot firin' up your shitter
I'm Bad Santa, here's your last role like John Ritter