Good Things Die

With all the beauty in my life, hit the mic 'till the lights out Bet Barrack play this in the White House when his wife's out I got that good shit, purple with them orange veins People say that yours taste like a wood chip You rookies push shit, million dollar rapper, DiBiase on the mic While you all is sloppy like the brothers Bushwack Pop had put his cock in momma's bush back In '78, the doc saw my face and tried to push back Yeah helmets? all ribs broken I'm an angel of death that taketh what the lord gives What gives? Every written's all fibs Ya'll bids phony, fishing in the dolphins And mermaids, sayin' Burbank relevant It's like using dog bags pickin' up the turd of an elephant Sayin' you ain't feelin' it, you full of shit, fell in it Wipe off and shut your mic off before I yell in it See any day could be your last, quit living in the past kid You want drama, take a class, get your phd See any moment I could pop out and leave you seein' asterisks Cause when it comes to spittin' raps I got my phd Now Verbal's said he's having fun So I say fuck it let me join in no avoidin' it, appointed let the static run These half-a-ton rappers claiming they ready I have the sun wrapped around my neck, chain gettin' heavy I got the planets aligning with the planning to sign it Then have them standing in line to see me ranting and rhyming They gassing you up with all those additives lying You buying that shit, what kind of fucking planet am I in? I'm off that, respect gettin' respect it's nothing left for the rest I fucking called it so I'm getting it next I got the shit to make it fucking feel something deep and something real Surface-level rappers wonder why they don't fucking appeal We give them real shit, real shit I want to be that rapper that they feel like they could go get a meal with Or split a cab with or share a tab with My mother call me Chris, I give a fuck about this rap shit