Writing for a minute, i ain't sparing no seconds
Haven't spoke to God, though i'm calling like a reverend
Jomie Crew, for union, man, that motto is irrelevant
Down for whatever, if we talking dead presidents
Young Nautic. Silly faced, with evil tactics
Sleeping on him, now i'm tearing up the mattress
Shifting like the phantom, random sightings in the distinct
In contact with my mind, though my rhymes seem distant
Pen is in my hand, the casket's what you model
Speaking loose-lipped, cause the half empty bottle
It's fine though, cause ruckus when we find dough
Heart near gone, rib hollow, so my voice low
Brass knucks, got him out, looking for trouble
If you come clean, make sure my part is doubled
Do em all dirty, leave em, worse than some rubble
Spit hard, rivals only allowed to mumble
Not judgemented. Leave the house all bummy
Looking for new girls, harder than stars above me
Using my gritty bars, for the fact I ain't lovely
Death ain't caught me, opened the can abruptly
Chugged the liquid down, got my problems all out
Bringing bodies in, more than that cash into count
Name heaven sent, but already know i'm hell-bound
Holler in the night, while y'all don't make a sound
Way i spit hard got them feeling all chagrin
Like really though, who's really to test him?
Leave their self esteem dim, less than a prelim
Kill em in a min, then stand with a big grin
Track clean, beat nice, flow swift
Calking out the track every time you hear him hit
Saying damn! Cause they know it's about to happen. Competition void when they see him start rappin
Busy bittie maccin. Busy opponent smackin
Busy coming in, while the rest sent packin
Keep quiet, cause this is not what you want
Sicker by the moment, different doctor by the month
Girls say they hate him cause his actions is blunt
When they say they love him, all he do is laugh or grunt
Skate, penny, biking, a bunch of us
Spending randomly with my parents' bucks, it's apparent huh?
I want label cuts. Though i'm spitting mad hard, i'm still making none
So, we in the streets with the heat trying to make profit
So catch my hands up or in another man's pockets
Or packing up the dope, and the chronic, to sell for the low
Then claim i got the money fast and honest
Haven't spoke to God, though i'm calling like a reverend
Jomie Crew, for union, man, that motto is irrelevant
Down for whatever, if we talking dead presidents
Young Nautic. Silly faced, with evil tactics
Sleeping on him, now i'm tearing up the mattress
Shifting like the phantom, random sightings in the distinct
In contact with my mind, though my rhymes seem distant
Pen is in my hand, the casket's what you model
Speaking loose-lipped, cause the half empty bottle
It's fine though, cause ruckus when we find dough
Heart near gone, rib hollow, so my voice low
Brass knucks, got him out, looking for trouble
If you come clean, make sure my part is doubled
Do em all dirty, leave em, worse than some rubble
Spit hard, rivals only allowed to mumble
Not judgemented. Leave the house all bummy
Looking for new girls, harder than stars above me
Using my gritty bars, for the fact I ain't lovely
Death ain't caught me, opened the can abruptly
Chugged the liquid down, got my problems all out
Bringing bodies in, more than that cash into count
Name heaven sent, but already know i'm hell-bound
Holler in the night, while y'all don't make a sound
Way i spit hard got them feeling all chagrin
Like really though, who's really to test him?
Leave their self esteem dim, less than a prelim
Kill em in a min, then stand with a big grin
Track clean, beat nice, flow swift
Calking out the track every time you hear him hit
Saying damn! Cause they know it's about to happen. Competition void when they see him start rappin
Busy bittie maccin. Busy opponent smackin
Busy coming in, while the rest sent packin
Keep quiet, cause this is not what you want
Sicker by the moment, different doctor by the month
Girls say they hate him cause his actions is blunt
When they say they love him, all he do is laugh or grunt
Skate, penny, biking, a bunch of us
Spending randomly with my parents' bucks, it's apparent huh?
I want label cuts. Though i'm spitting mad hard, i'm still making none
So, we in the streets with the heat trying to make profit
So catch my hands up or in another man's pockets
Or packing up the dope, and the chronic, to sell for the low
Then claim i got the money fast and honest
( Phil Nautica )
www.ChordsAZ.com