/ It’s the state of the game of which I have to take issue/ See lames pullin’ dames and emcees are sacrificial/ Where’s the Mighty Mos Def and Talib Kweli?/ The Kool G Raps and the B.I.G.’s?/ Poke fun at Soulja Boy yet the joke is on you/ He’s a parody of you and everything you do/ You can’t have lyrics without a bit of swagger/ And you can’t have spirit if you’re rhymes don’t matter/ I spit up on the regular like teenage girls/ I got hip-hop, you got the teenage world/ The epitome of a Carolina Hurricane/ Tropical storm rapper, wish you were the same/ Spartanburg on my chest, S.C. on back/ Ya’ll too weak to even pick up the flack/ Word to 3K, I got something say/ I’m putting the chips on the table and making my play/


Flow cold as Isis on these Mic devices/ I’m ill, the skill level of twice the nicest/ Rail against me and out comes hell fire/ Terry Jr, bitch, I’ma J.R. Writer/ I’m on the plateau to which you aspire/ You amuse, I’m a muse who deftly inspires/ Rhymes are hooker twat, just worn and tired/ Bout your rented house and twenty two inch tires/ Eighty percent rapping just don’t compare/ I’m Wheelin’, I’m Dealin’, I’m a young Ric Flair/ Substance, style, and all in one package/ Compressed, crack, vile and I do damage/Enough about swag, switch up the topic/ Males complimenting swag’s homo erotic/ If you sweet like candy that’s fine and dandy/ But ya’ll so called thugs comin’ off like pansies/