I've gotta cold killer appetite for all these new artists/

I'm a living Richard Kuklinski mixed with a Jeffrey Dahmer/

With a dash of that Hannibal Lector and the Zodiac Killer with a Kevlar/

Vest of armor, keepin' a brother hung or lynched, but I'd still feast on ya/

Get these street rappers G-checked like they claim a set/

Run their "real nigga" card through the machine and double check/

Every-and-anybody's gettin' their identity tested when it comes to the Kidd/

Can't put down no more phony niggas in this rap business/

I will clap at niggas, like an audience applause/

The boy is more of an animal than James Howlett's claws/

I'm my own damn boss, but I'm no disciple at all/

Ask Jesus whenever he makes his return who his disciples was/

Or ask Yeezus what them disciples about, dawg/

And that's word to Chicago, they about that real shit/

Heard that from the nigga ScHoolboy on that "Banger (MOSHPIT)"/

Warn ya momma, I'm on that "bring drama to your front door" shit/

And make you forfeit the game you thought you was running/

I'll be cruising through the clouds and with my tommy on top gunning/

Rappers, rappers, rappers, pay attention, y'all some actors/

That goes for each and every negro that keep saying "that heat, I'm packing"/

You about to feel the heat when McCarthy comes through smacking/

Anybody who's acting ratchet, and that's word to Emmanuel/

Hudson and his brother, Philip, catch me dippin' like a nacho, killa/

Double dippin' the chip like Jerry was my neighbor/

And Kramer was passing through my apartment like I owe him a favor/

While George was still discussing a pitch of a show of nothing had flavor/

At the end, Elaine is still saying the same thing she'll end up saying later/

I'm dropping bars without a care, this is a song about nothing/

A///