Death to the dictators

Spectators

Bitch makers

Put downers

Miscounts

And shootouts

Fuck all them hood rats

That mismatch

Too scared to get that good rap

All because it slows the green cash

Flowin out the bullet holes of a kids casket

I understand the need to hustle

Feelin like you’s not a man just because you

Don’t fight at night grippin smith and wessons

Gettin bitched out for bein goody goody

But I promise its a blessing

Not to be thinkin bout blocks and stretches

Like Caesar did the western

Our time on earth is short

And it's a guarantee to bleed

So don’t force the worse hurt

On yo mama’s purse cashin out on the cursed hearse

Snuffed out when you wanted to be the first person

On a list of low lurkers

I can’t say why we exist

Yet it persists in my words

That I been kissed with the ish

That the answer ain’t so devilish

Perhaps alleviate the hate

I dawned the prophet

Thinkin Nathan was too knockish

Maybe reach my final clock tick

Blow my brains out with a rocket

Never knocked it

Stuck it

Crocked it

Faked a boosted sense of pocket

Draped from head to toe in traits

Became the words I eat for pain

Sprayin poems

I’m a motherfuckin saint

Shit, you can call me Naf