Every Rapper In The House Shut The Fuck Up The Weathermen

[Verse 1: Copywrite]
We do dirt
We go alone. I’m PS2, your game’s Coleco, it’s old
Big-headed, and the size ain’t fitted for my ego alone
Holding NY, but I do it for my people back home
In O-H-I-O, where the snowflakes like whoa
Fiends sniff in the streets, hoping it’s cocaine by loads
I tell ‘em, “Sorry, but there’s no way, 5-0
Would have scooped it and sold that shit to the whole state by now”
A message for you biters: don’t take my style
When it’s straight under, you’re fetal, have your Colgatе-like smile
In cutthroat mode with no cakе right now, so
Get your girl a vest to protect her chest ‘cause I
Pull out on a bitch like unprotected sex, then I
Take her bracelet and matching necklace set, no patience
Quicker, it’s an unexpected death, be gracious
Bitch, I’m nutting on your breast and chest. Now blow me
You brat, twenty bucks you owe me for that
Throw me a sack. Honest, I promise to pay you back
Next time you ask me, I’ll be like, “You shouldn’t have gave me that”
Gangbanging your chick, you keep tonguing that bitch
Cats that see me come up be like, “How you keep coming with shit?”
I tell ‘em, “Sometimes the illest shit’s right under your nose”
Like my mouthpiece when I recite some of my flows
And dykes wanna get close, I turn ‘em heterosexual
Then turn around and be like, “Invite some of your hoes”
You are what you eat. That shit’s facts
Why I never eat pussy and just stick with Big Macs/MACs