[Round 1: Real Deal]
It’s been a while… My last King Of The Dot joint I battled Rone, in a match for the ages
Used my third round to call out some rappers I hated
‘Cause they was acting like faggots
And I ain’t have any patience
So he got thrown under the bus like Metallica’s bassist
Enter Sandman, Lush, you can get me on this megacard
Looks like you put up repetition against a repertoire
It’s over, Mr. Strech-a-bar
Now you getting these stretcher bars
Raise the beam, Chilla shot, we can go a stretch of bars
They got me battling a Jones like symptoms of withdrawal
He’s another dead rapper
Hang his mural, put his image to brick wall
You talk that thug life, are you living that shit? Nah
You’ll get played in the streets like Dominican stick ball
You ain’t hood, motherfucker
I been peeping out where Jerome lives
Did a little research, you know, keeping up with the Joneses
But hey you’re a Jones with the heat
Shit if you shootin cortisone in your knees
‘Cause round Boston they say you won’t find a Jerome with a rock nor a Jones pushing keys
He act like he add up on the corner like Cinci's Jones
Til he turn and he gotta face the music like Quincy Jones
Get me holmes?
This was supposed to be the battle
That’s right up the fans alley
Real Deal versus a street rapper
Here’s what I don’t understand, Cali
He talks like he running blocks and dumping Glocks
Let’s talk where you come from then, shall we?
You’re from Boston, right?
Home of more white hoods than Southern Klan rallies
It’s just poor Irish white folk, there’s not a lot more to see
And shit I got more than a feeling
That Boston would rock more with me
I will show up to your doorstep
With some potato heads with me
They tripping waving that piece like a Grateful Dead hippie
For a 6 pack of Guinness
I’ll pass and share your profile with some goonies
And get you stomped out
By some MacNamaras, O’Reillys and Roonies
That Mick masked up is not Foley bro
He'll tap ya pockets like “where art thou?” it’s not Romeo
Chilla’s on his bullshit? This ain’t my first rodeo
Oh you sick? Well I’m from the city that cured polio
But you look at me like since I’m from Pittsburgh you picture a hick from the sticks or in cabins
Well you must’ve misheard
Cause if my goons figure that this herb is trappin’
I’ll send em to where you pitch work
There’ll be grins, smirks, then lit shirt reactions
For thinking you a kingpin sigs burns, your wig perms
That shit turns to big Ern McCraken
It’s been a while… My last King Of The Dot joint I battled Rone, in a match for the ages
Used my third round to call out some rappers I hated
‘Cause they was acting like faggots
And I ain’t have any patience
So he got thrown under the bus like Metallica’s bassist
Enter Sandman, Lush, you can get me on this megacard
Looks like you put up repetition against a repertoire
It’s over, Mr. Strech-a-bar
Now you getting these stretcher bars
Raise the beam, Chilla shot, we can go a stretch of bars
They got me battling a Jones like symptoms of withdrawal
He’s another dead rapper
Hang his mural, put his image to brick wall
You talk that thug life, are you living that shit? Nah
You’ll get played in the streets like Dominican stick ball
You ain’t hood, motherfucker
I been peeping out where Jerome lives
Did a little research, you know, keeping up with the Joneses
But hey you’re a Jones with the heat
Shit if you shootin cortisone in your knees
‘Cause round Boston they say you won’t find a Jerome with a rock nor a Jones pushing keys
He act like he add up on the corner like Cinci's Jones
Til he turn and he gotta face the music like Quincy Jones
Get me holmes?
This was supposed to be the battle
That’s right up the fans alley
Real Deal versus a street rapper
Here’s what I don’t understand, Cali
He talks like he running blocks and dumping Glocks
Let’s talk where you come from then, shall we?
You’re from Boston, right?
Home of more white hoods than Southern Klan rallies
It’s just poor Irish white folk, there’s not a lot more to see
And shit I got more than a feeling
That Boston would rock more with me
I will show up to your doorstep
With some potato heads with me
They tripping waving that piece like a Grateful Dead hippie
For a 6 pack of Guinness
I’ll pass and share your profile with some goonies
And get you stomped out
By some MacNamaras, O’Reillys and Roonies
That Mick masked up is not Foley bro
He'll tap ya pockets like “where art thou?” it’s not Romeo
Chilla’s on his bullshit? This ain’t my first rodeo
Oh you sick? Well I’m from the city that cured polio
But you look at me like since I’m from Pittsburgh you picture a hick from the sticks or in cabins
Well you must’ve misheard
Cause if my goons figure that this herb is trappin’
I’ll send em to where you pitch work
There’ll be grins, smirks, then lit shirt reactions
For thinking you a kingpin sigs burns, your wig perms
That shit turns to big Ern McCraken
Comments (0)
The minimum comment length is 50 characters.
Information
Users of Guests are not allowed to comment this publication.
There are no comments yet. You can be the first!