You try to sound like you got smart, you know, a touch of class,
the problem with a smart ass though is if you're not smart, then you're just an arse.
I said do not start, my lyrics hit you hard and almost stop your heart,
What happened surell? How come you lost youre spark, the second Sh.it just got so dark,
Now you've brok apart, and I can't put you back together cos I lost a part,
The bit that made you good at rapping, psyche!, you've just got to laugh.
still you really do think you're sick at this, but you're not a lyricist you just a little bitch,
You keep just spitting sh.it, thats about as much fun as a nipple twist,
you've touched more teenage boys now than syphilis, just ask little chris,
But too many hand jobs left you with brittle wrists. Now you eat viagras like they're liquorice.
That thing flying at your face? To split your lips, mate It's a fist,
your rapping's hit and miss, sometimes it's hard to know if you should stick or twist,
Or simply slit your wrists
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