[Spoken Words]
I See You Made It

Yo, yo
Sound like the roaches learnin’ how to rap in this bitch
That mildew boom bap shit
Smell like backwoods, ass sweat, and blasphemy
I ain’t here to “turn up,” I’m here to fuck shit up
Turn that crusty-ass loop up—watch me baptize this filth
Let’s fucking go


[Verse 1]
When I light up, I’m King Kong in your mom’s tub
Shit-faced, eatin' mushrooms with a hand gun
Nothin' elegant, just ignorant excellence
Bar so mean, it kick priests out the residence

Bitch, I ain’t balanced—I'm cracked and feral
Still pourin’ E&J on my therapist’s apparel
No peace, no prep, no clean sets
I freestyle like a raccoon that just found meth

I break rules while I’m buildin’ a spliff
Put a Molotov in your playlist, then dip
No clout chase, I clout smack
Your favorite rapper’s teeth sittin’ in my weed sack

I’m like three blunts deep with a vendetta
Still yellin’ “fuck you” through a denim Beretta
They say I’m wild, I say who asked you?
I kick your buzz like I’m pissed in the bathroom

Old soul, young mouth, dumb hot
Pull a punchline out my ass, watch your buzz stop
You fragile fucks play soft like flutes
I snort basslines and puke out loops

I ain’t preachin', I’m schemin’
Slap the mic stand ‘til the fucker start bleedin'
I’m the reason your girl don’t come home
She caught one verse, now she punchin' her phone

Rap game sweet like your uncle’s bathrobe
I'm the mold in the basement that grew a zip code
Talk slick and I’ll hand you pain
In a dirty lunchbox labeled fuck your lane

I wipe my ass with your Billboard dreams
I put ad-libs on your mom’s voice screams
She love the flow, call it “Jesus with a crowbar”
I spit dope in a ziplock shaped like a crow’s scar

Yo, I piss on verses for fun
My brain’s a dead raccoon strapped with a stun gun
This ain't art, it's vandalism in motion
I jack off on the beat and call that devotion

Swear jar full, fuck your morals
I ghostwrite bars on public urinals
I don’t rap—I assault sound
You barely bark, I bury dogs by the pound

I’m a roach with a vendetta and a notebook
A war cry made of sweat, weed, and gross looks
Leave your set lookin’ like a riot got bored
And I’m still half-sober, bitch, praise the Lord



[END]

[End]