Boy this Glock is cocked and ready to pop up on another hoe Hollow points will have your bitch ass knocking on the devil's door Yo... I'm Majin Buu up off the juice; just let me talk to you You cross my mind from time to time, but what's it costed you? I'm stuck inside the prisms of this indica, I'm in the cut I'm feeling anxious Roll it up and thank it But I wonder if she thinks about me? Thinks when she drinks about me? And I don't know the answers Walk with lady luck as I beg to hold her hand first Ayo, feelings are cancerous Cannabis sandwiched in a damn thick manuscript And I'm just trying to McMahon the shit Big boss Grow a pair (pear) I'm Rick Ross Riding til the shift's off "Don't fuck this up", thank you for the tip, boss Creeping out the sticks, ma Feeling kind of big, boy Big and tall. I'm sick of stalling hitting margin ends Feeling part carcass, smart artist with an awkward trend Hard Benjamins spent on carcinogens Demons crawling out my mouth; I'm talcumed out Fresh cut with a couple bad bitches in the front seat If my conscious were personified, I bet it'd probably punch me Yo, why you telling lies for? Catch me by the dime store listening to Grindcore I need bread? I rhyme more If only I would try more... It's yours, isn't it?