Friday, July 12, 2024

Track selection by: Phenomenal P
Rap Shyt
KXNG Crooked
Album: The Sixteen Chapel EP(2020)
Producers: N/A

Verse

If you ain’t got no bodies 
Don’t talk to me about killing shit 
Physically or lyrically 
You illegitimate ignorant niggas get 
Snapped in half, quick as the middle 
Of a fiddlestick, your chick will get found on some drowned in the river shit 
With a icicle sticking out where her liver sit and her skin is pale as that bitch maleficent 
This isn’t just bars this is lyrical imprisonment to implement the slaughter of the innocents over instruments 
Every sentence is intricate listeners are the inmates of my naval brig 
Held captive by my pen-man-ship 
Bigger they are
Harder them artist will fall when the beat rock I put crack on
paper call it sheetrock like when I’m performing its part of a wall 
As you eavesdrop on the hardest of all 
I should perform these drops at Carnegie Hall like you seen Bach 
Don’t compare me they don’t come near me, what the fuck
I sit on all these babies I babysit em like I’m uncle chuck 
Sometimes I wear my pants a size up so the gun’ll tuck in the
cold streets a cold piece of steel is the way I bundle up 
Even when the sun is up
The price of murder is undercut, that just means your numbers up 
When It’s time to get my numbers up 
Speaking of numbers
I'm subtracting the wack just to sum it up Oedipus Complex I’m
exposing you sick mother fucks 
Feeling like Hip Hop Weekly again
I’m in my three piece again 
Funeral music till my shit blow like
Feces in wind
Separating my talents from the human species again
As soon as E.T. begin
Extraterrestrial hoes caressing my testicles while you texting professionals 
Spending your checks on the sexuals
I get head from intellectuals 
My nuts spread on they breastuals 
Then I play dead on a sexy hoe 
Laying in bed like a vegetable 
Get more leg than an exit road 
But for the bread I'mma exit though 
Cause for the bread with the decimals 
I pull sleds with the Eskimos 
I duck feds up in Mexico 
I push X for the extra load 
That’s low res but F it though 
Need more eggs for my breakfast bro 
Let the records show I once had dirty hands
30 bands in my duffle bag rapping to
30 fans 
Cause this lyrical lane is dying quick but that shit is cool
I just side hustle go home and dive in my swimming pool ouu 
Back in the day I was getting my paper wherever the plugs meet 
So I could afford to keep rhyming like I’m in a cypher even on club beats 
Syllable syllable lyrical miracle still in a plush suite 
Still in the front seat of my Benz playing Biggie’s What’s Beef 
It’s rap or die can’t let you fuck with my apple pie 
If I’m standing by while you take it what kind of man am I
As a rapper I
Feel like a samurai in the camera’s eye living by the sword and
the camera guy is the man up high 
Lord all I ask could you help me then bless the real niggas who
felt me and I’ll be wealthy amen (amen, amen, amen, amen)