At the grip of old age
These streets biting at our necks
Our crew run
Corners & Lots over
Filled tanks in the back
Jars and straps In
Cadillacs And Traps
Don't step to our crew
Blasting lines upon lines
With these twisted enzymes
We chart-toppers
Like C-Murder & Master P
No limits to life
Michael, Roy, & I
Torn back from the future
So we going to be
Back at it again
Spitting strings of rhymes
echoing sounds -
Bouncing off your ear canals
in your mind’s eye throughout
The Times
Working on my rhymes supply
In the nick of time
Queuing up -
Feeling mighty fine
Sippin on some shine
Tippin on red wine
Walk in and out the door
Coming back for more
I was just in a cage
Surrounded by sewage and waste
Oh then freedom got me
Running with the nine -
Glocked up to ten -
With heat reasonable
For my rhymes to be readable
To be so clear
And concise
Had to think twice
My god on a scale of one to carats n grams -
Pound what am I
I care a ton
Like a ray of sunshine
On a real dreary day
Waiting for the sun to rise
With a smile on my face
To be working on my vocabulary -
More words imaginary
Feeling like a dime
While working on my grind
My past, locked up - caged,
Surrounded by
Sewage and waste!
Just remember, I have a temper
Should I pull a Dexter or a Hannibal Lecter
You best stay out of my sector
Your words will just reflect or
At best turn to dust with no effect
Feels like I've been rapping,
~N~
Battling Billy Bob Thornton
Your always babbling, scrambling to go from orphan to the king,
It's baffling you do it without practicing
Your eyes are blackening from the lack of sleep
Stop gambling and except defeat
You really will see when I briskly rip out your kidney
For getting lippy with Dixie
Don't get bitchy you could still be merely equivalent to a shitty brisk tea

(Collaboration between
@I_Am_MichAel,
Roy Johannes Gama,
@TheWarTornPoet,
Words of Anthrax)