Go ahead and release another mixtape...try it. Find yourself in a basement, tied to chair with your mixtape on repeat. That's real pain. This track has been around for a bit, but we had to get it in here; Angle & Ptate, finally.
So, if you’re listening.
Pay no mind, uh to them rappers with a
Third eye blind, ‘cause we gon’ hit ‘em with a
Ether from behind, and we gon’ make ‘em understand
Things ain’t going just exactly how they planned.
Yeah, I sit and think on occasion,
about the possible ramifications of being so lethal.
Might run into complications trying to get my pearly gates on.
Black swan, mate song, watch for the ghostly sequel.
Can only hope I’m surrounded by enough God fearing Earth people,
raising their hands to the almighty inconspicuous. That shit’s religulous.
Them rappers’ succubus. Ain’t nothing but a bitch to us.
Just want to let you in on a fact. See you’re the pot, you should probably quit calling me black.
Oops upside your head with a stamp, with White Andy middle finger backhand slap.
And that’s when you know I snapped, back like the brim on hipster’s cap.
And I didn’t mean to kidnap, but the opportunity fell in my lap.
Imagine that. You have big dreams of rap schemes when you go to bed.
Ha, last thing you see instead is a severed pig’s head with a hoodie on.
You wake up in a strange place on a new dawn. So, now it’s on.
No more of that spitting fire and dropping bombs.
See, I’m talking torture, unrated graphic violence.
I show no mercy, no kindness as you’re just screaming for silence.
Ha, yeah, silence. See I’m physically not going to harm a hair.
Leave you duct taped to that chair, while your own excuse for music blares.
Solicit opposite of dulcet, explicit culprit.
Come to the painful realization that your friends have been feeding you bullshit.
Now your only ticket out of this sound proof recording booth,
is to bite off your own tongue with your shark-rowed curb tooth.
Ha, see I’m something like a hero.
Never will the locals hear your vocals crammed into their ear holes again.
Here we go! I crank the volume up to ten,
to drive the point home for me. Your bulging eyes tell the story.
You’ll never make another wack song. I know. As you beg and you plead,
I walk up the stairs and slam the door, leave your mixtapes on repeat.
And you say!