Intro:

Krohmeconut!

What up Krohme?

Verse 1:

Nothing rhymes with orange?

I'll do it sober, y'all stoned as a gorgon

So raw I might rebirth this like Horus

A nonconformist throwing a wrench in your quorum

But nothing rhymes with orange

If you about bad decorum and extortion

I bring more fire than Canada leaving the North singed

Might burn a bridge scorching to misfortune

And that's just because nothing rhymes with orange

Let me marathon this and keep the torch lit

No time for the tortoise

The torque ripped and roaring winds

Morphed into F6 whirlwinds without warning

The storm tint was

Orange

Verse 2:

Y'all are bidin' your time like four six

It's the final curtain

And you're dealing with one of the horsemen

If you want to let the horde in and war swing

On ones that think they're Ed Norton with Norse kin

(Punks)

Jaws like porcelain meet hammer fists like Thor swings

The spiked bat looks like an urchin

Leave a head dented like a door ding

Medic get an absorbent or toss him in the morgue bin

(Nazi punks **** off)

I fostered styles and made kids orphans

Cuz I'm surgical with this and leave a core minced

I'm like The Crow making stabs in organs

In alphabetical orders don't get it distorted

(I'll still do a bit like a hertz, split)

If you saying I need to tone it down for more spins

I say your breath needs Lavoris or shortened

I might strangle them with the mic cordage

And won't let go until I spit a chorus

Verse 3:

I hate how you act like what you import is important

Don't know why you try to compensate for when

You never worked a forklift

And this ain't a work slip and torn disk

(The high-vis is orange)

The warped wit attract warm skin

And that's why your chick's yearning

As I score twin contortionists with engorged ****

Gorgeous French Taurus's named Lauren and Morgan

(Fake tans looking like orange)

Subs on the Jimmy John no Tim Hortons

Let the whores sin

They cottage-core chicks how they forage the forest

And they willing to give top 'til the morning

Or they got sore lips or **** all over their fleur prints

I could do it with jorts ripped and without Jordans

Plus, your ex with the wart chin says you got a gherkin

So **** yourself forever in a **** binge

How else you gonna get that pork trimmed?

(Get the Jerkins)

I graduated like a valedictorian

I'm champ status grilling them like a Foreman

I could hoard rings here to Warwick

Who got Self Flair like this?

It's your prince!

Coroners at the coronation

All hail your king!

Outro:

Nothing rhymes with orange

Nothing rhymes with orange

Nothing rhymes with orange

Nothing rhymes with