Don't put this in the lounge it belongs here/
where all the song writing talent can nearly taste your fear/
all you have to offer is your recycled rhymes/
trust me Kid I see your type all the time/
you spend an hour writing a freestyle/
you need to not take such a long while/
cos while you're writing I'm getting better/
honing my skills to chop you up like Feta/
cheese, like that between your toes/
yellow like the colour of your d1ck after time with your hoes/
cos they nasty man you need to get yourself a good girl/
I'm out here test driving your mom, then I give your sis a whirl/
slapping her ass as she screaming like a hound/
riding her like a pony, we go round and round/
go back home and cry in your pillow/
knowing that you were owned by a smelly hobo/
so next time you see a tramp lying down on the streets/
throw them a coin before they whup you with their wicked beats/
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