(Yea) Straight out the laboratory with another horror story

Haiku, the name will be engraved in immortal glory

R.I.P. Squad the reason why your homies ‘gon be pouring forties

Ready to go to war. You’re ‘bout to get your final warning shortly

‘Cause after that I’ma strike just like lightning

You’ve got a hefty price on your life. My knife’s slicing

Through all the rappers looking to bite like Mike Tyson

Studying my style, ‘cause on mics I’m quite trifling

It’s the Illest Lyricist. Y’all know what the business is

I’m flyer than the house that ended up landing on the Wicked Witch

The verses that I spit consist of dark lines with pain inside them

Haven’t been the same since I escaped from the insane asylum

I’m on a mission. All these haters trying in vain to stop him

Gifted. You lames are just the product of a tainted condom

The chosen one aka the Reaper’s oldest son

The one who almost froze the Sun. Skill level close to none

This ain’t for only one rapper in particular

My message is for anyone whose path is perpendicular

You’re chasing fame, so you lames turn commercial

You can shine for a summer, but our flame burns eternal

My weapons are flesh eating. Pop shots and leave your vest weakened

Penetrate and have your chest leaking like you’re breast feeding

Blow you into next weekend. F*** that, next season

I suggest leaving ‘fore you be in Heaven guest speaking

Slip on the ski mask and creep past my enemies

Checking out my green grass, mcs fast to mimic me

Copying my style is a cheap path to victory

So when I’m on top, I’ma teabag the industry

Your town will surely want to cop the album early

I belong on mics like a Bulls or a Falcons jersey

Them other rappers say they’re nice with the pen

But you can find better rhymes in my recycling bin

Ain’t too many left alive who’s spitting these rhymes rapidly

You couldn’t be this fly unless you defy gravity

Beat me in my prime? You’re living a wild fantasy

Go ahead and try, but I bet you gon’ die tragically

I’m ready for war. My dresser drawer is a weapon store

And when I grip the Glock, you’ll be n**** knocking on Heaven’s door

This ain’t a metaphor. Not some little dumb rap

Tell me go to Hell (Ha) Been there. Done that

Disappear in thin air. Come back. One lap

Your chance at winning is thinner than chin hair

Fun fact: My flow’s HIV. How Ill Very

Even when I’m 6 feet under, my sound still carries

D-Beast keeping count of all you clowns we’ll bury

Five 3 masked up like the brown Jim Carey

N****s sound real scary, screaming to plead your innocence

We’re riding down your avenue, creeping like senior citizens

Read in between the sentences. When drama’s in the building

B****es hesitate to stand behind bars like a prison sentence

Never sleep. Grind hard. Strive until the finish

Ain’t no competition. By far, I’m the illest in this

Got the game wrapped up. Nah, this a hit stick

Lyrics R-rated, and you p**** n****s chick flicks

Everything I spit’s sick. Front, and get your s*** split

Click Click Bullseye. Now you look like Slick Rick