trap.
02-02-2013, 06:57 PM
Creatical:
Get dealt a lose…
I’m pullin’ ya’ card; And if you ain’t delivering ransom-
Ya’ might as well fold now, me winning is ‘hands’ down
I’m about to shine, son, the rays’ll be golden
You’ll be hittin’ the deck like ya’ tape player was broken
I’ve stolen the show… ‘Bout to stomp all over this kid
Q’s an animal in this rap game, playin’ the role of a bitch
I put metal in the breast of peasants to rest pleasant
The only killer line you ever had was ya’ death sentence
Now you sketched out… Everything you’re drafting is bogus
My weapons are drawn, you just have ACME explosives
Blessed with no proclivities, you winning is annual
Q tryna use creativity, asking if it comes with a manual
Cre’s a cannibal - you’ll soon be just a name of the past
I’ma lay a beat down, like Dre up in the lab
My shit’s top of the line, while this geek’s finding new lows
Q’s verses get 1’s and 0’s like voters speak binary code
I’ll electrify and surge forward, leave the crowd in jolts
And if you don’t die right away, the aftershock’s 1,000 volts
Last March you got knocked, out first round, too
But I ain’t gonna blow ya’ spot,
‘Cos you get bonkers on the mic, and ya’ caliber’s cool
<HR WIDTH="450" ALIGN="left">
Quriosity:
May the best man win
It's true in this spar, that Q's not even shootin too hard
Cos next round you'll hold my pic jus like you do to guitars
So move or get scarred, im high but this guy is debatin things
When I lower my fuckin standards, jus tryin 'creative' things
Waitin keen, the ruler in fact, an if he's viewin my stacks
Then I'll hand him my cheddar cheese… in a sewer of rats
Cos fewer combat, an lesser contest my verses of morbid
But I don't see the bitch in you… if thas ya personal portrait
An my forces are horrid, so ofcourse I'll be beatin this thinker
Cos he's gotta voting ring, plus some green on his finger
Convening my sinker, Cre's jus a maggot who'll die quick
Since im leanin ta pop flies, like this faggot was high pitched
Leave em askin which guy hit, while I write rhymes in fact
That are so cutting age, I'll write rhymes for Axe (eyeaxe-adonis)
Type lines for wacks, an it's sad this player is as bad as haters
Cre talks, but we never see em… like Tim Allen's neighbor
An later, my fila's embark on a meeting to spark
So I plan to beat his ass until his penis'll fart
Meanin im sharp, while he's lyin in parts an crying help
Dying felt, 'til the only title he's holdin is Orion's Belt
Sincerely,
The Journalist
Get dealt a lose…
I’m pullin’ ya’ card; And if you ain’t delivering ransom-
Ya’ might as well fold now, me winning is ‘hands’ down
I’m about to shine, son, the rays’ll be golden
You’ll be hittin’ the deck like ya’ tape player was broken
I’ve stolen the show… ‘Bout to stomp all over this kid
Q’s an animal in this rap game, playin’ the role of a bitch
I put metal in the breast of peasants to rest pleasant
The only killer line you ever had was ya’ death sentence
Now you sketched out… Everything you’re drafting is bogus
My weapons are drawn, you just have ACME explosives
Blessed with no proclivities, you winning is annual
Q tryna use creativity, asking if it comes with a manual
Cre’s a cannibal - you’ll soon be just a name of the past
I’ma lay a beat down, like Dre up in the lab
My shit’s top of the line, while this geek’s finding new lows
Q’s verses get 1’s and 0’s like voters speak binary code
I’ll electrify and surge forward, leave the crowd in jolts
And if you don’t die right away, the aftershock’s 1,000 volts
Last March you got knocked, out first round, too
But I ain’t gonna blow ya’ spot,
‘Cos you get bonkers on the mic, and ya’ caliber’s cool
<HR WIDTH="450" ALIGN="left">
Quriosity:
May the best man win
It's true in this spar, that Q's not even shootin too hard
Cos next round you'll hold my pic jus like you do to guitars
So move or get scarred, im high but this guy is debatin things
When I lower my fuckin standards, jus tryin 'creative' things
Waitin keen, the ruler in fact, an if he's viewin my stacks
Then I'll hand him my cheddar cheese… in a sewer of rats
Cos fewer combat, an lesser contest my verses of morbid
But I don't see the bitch in you… if thas ya personal portrait
An my forces are horrid, so ofcourse I'll be beatin this thinker
Cos he's gotta voting ring, plus some green on his finger
Convening my sinker, Cre's jus a maggot who'll die quick
Since im leanin ta pop flies, like this faggot was high pitched
Leave em askin which guy hit, while I write rhymes in fact
That are so cutting age, I'll write rhymes for Axe (eyeaxe-adonis)
Type lines for wacks, an it's sad this player is as bad as haters
Cre talks, but we never see em… like Tim Allen's neighbor
An later, my fila's embark on a meeting to spark
So I plan to beat his ass until his penis'll fart
Meanin im sharp, while he's lyin in parts an crying help
Dying felt, 'til the only title he's holdin is Orion's Belt
Sincerely,
The Journalist