Lyrics
Its no secret, speaks knows what beef is//
Stick meat in his face, & believe me, he gon eat it//
This bitch is high, like he puffin that Purp haze//
don’t wanna rhyme, nah, he wanna die in the worst way//
You should be silent, why you speak in the first place//
You only rap round Christmas time & Birthdays//
Forsakens dead weight, doc, you not a monstah//
You just pissed at a pig cuz I copped ya spot on the roster//
Joe got em hot, test dude & show the bitch in him//
his tracks ass, check the views, see, no ones listenin//
prayin for the day he aint lame like “One & a wake up”//
But you’ll never make paper, long as you look like a thumb wita shape up//
slow it down Joe, leave Speaks wita clown nose//
Red all around em, cats like “yo, why you on the ground fo?”// slooooowww
He beatin me? how so? I’ont know, but I’ll show//
Speaks evil, hit em wita sleeper & leave em out cold//whoa!
I’m cold blooded wit blades, I bet that he’s a bleeder//
Plus I’m hungry fucka, watch me eat this Twinkie eater//120
fat ass got picked last, after the cat wit four eyes//
its true that you are what you eat, then im battelin pork rinds//
Ill fuck this bitch up like a drunk fucks a fifth up//
Cut his chin up, crunch knuckles in his stomach, bust his lip up//
Fuck the fifth up, tracks wack, all them shyts suck?//
My rhymes terrify, type to rid a guy of his hic-ups//
Check his sig, he reppin the heads of the cats I spit against//
They spoke to Joe, got smoked, & never spit again//
Ya skills nill, I will embed some lead in ya mental/
Cease speakin, for I put this fuckin pen to ya temple/
This bitch is fake, & what he’s spittin is fables//
Ill leave his face like cats when they switch to digital cable// whoa!
Who gon smoke this man, ill be the one to hold the gun//
Leave em twitchin in Trins arms, like he’s Travoltas son//done!
shoulda stayed away, but came back to snag an ego boost//
I’m evil duke, ill spit tracks to ya ass, & leave ya bleedin dude//
Ill turn a pen to gun, ta see what them thangs, do to him//
Speaks only OK, cuz chamberfools producin him//
im askin, she go lez before or after yall collabo’d//
gays contagious, s’why I said “we aint really hafta battle”//succinct!
No homo jokes, that’s just season on the recipie//
But best believe, wanna test death, ya better off textin me//
Cuz on the mic I end lives and net reputations//
I bet you hate that im the greatest, yes, im the best you facin//