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