Ghost Musik Conway the Machine (Ft. Busta Rhymes & Stove God Cooks)

[Intro]
The walls come tumbling down

[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
It's The Machine, I don't know what you thought
This beat so hard, I ain't know where to start
One of the illest when it come to throwing a dart
The Yeezy-seven-fifties glow in the dark
Three-fifty-seven missiles blow you apart
Put a bullet hole in your heart
Goons lurking, they lay in your bushes
Your face'll get pushed in when you put your rover in park
Thinking back when I sold blow in the park
Can't wait till bitches see this rolley I bought
Flood the bezel with all kind of stones
Out in them Cali hills, smoking on the finest grown (smoking)
Verse of the year shit, every time I jot a poem
'Cause I'm ten times iller than these Maricon's
Young boy caught a couple cases
He upstate in general population cutting faces
Pull up the [?] and pop a couple Ace's
And when I leave, I bet I pull off in a fucking space ship
Just to see their fucking faces
Nothing basic, five hundred for my fucking Asics
You know the fucking fave shits
I don't do the fucking fake shit (Talk to em)
Look, my plug is a fucking racist
He dealing whites only, prices no fluctuation
Put the blender in the batter like it's fucking cake mix
Bars sharp like the cutlery I cut my steak with