Psych

Say less, bro

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being

Yo

You're hilarious, I'm nefarious

Buried opponents‘ll always be good Samaritans

A couple plot holes, but the advantage is to me for literary technique

Unwrap the bandages, mummy

Potholes to your mandible, dummy

You pop, snort molly

X to see what color the grasses get

Gives you lockjaw

Hits you with the right, the left, excellent boxer

Pacquiao with the southpaw

Ring is a cell, locked box; my shotgun got shells for snails

Rounds that house slugs; bell

The third coming, I get around, I’m Pac’s son

Not a priest, but in Nas’ words “God’s Son”

Peace with the piece, and I got one shot

Sun blocked by the flock o’ doves

Olive concoctions

Tree chiefer, seaweed dealer, a green reefer

Deep seer, mystique leader, a top gun

Heat seeker, esteem lethal, a dream eater

Sheep bleeder, you sleep, ether when Glocks bust

Chill, freezing, the steering wheel, it steer itself

This century of technology getting weird as hell

Devil’s lost son, tears fell

Evaporate off the face, a glacier, I steel melt

The 9/11 incendiary, the beams fell

A serial conspiracy theorist who means well

Curse of the rhymer

After I shot ya, I wore ya, that’s a murder impostor

Then brought the sauce to the pasta, that’s the perfect lasagna

Rehearsing lines by the morgue while inside of a hearse

Ouija reversed, showing nines three times, it’s

Christopher Wallace, Pac, Nipsey, and Phife

I'm ready to die against the world, running to live out my life

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being

I don't need to see to believe it

I be it, believe me

I be in my being