[Verse 1: E-92]
It's E-92 running up your f**ing block
Quicket Bat co*ked, tear you up like a black co*k
Doper than the smack doe; all up in your a**, ho
Run up to that flat hot: dad get his cap shot
Glocks sticking out my slacks like extra dicks
In your mother-f**ing mouth, tasting like a Twix
Three guns: give a sh**. I'll give you a shout
Run up with your clique and your b**h-a** pout
You're the next to get your sh** spit out of your wig
****'s grossed out but this is f**ing sick
Five Saints clique, man: we rock the f**ing spot
N64's pissed cause of my last drop
b**hes don't want no more Steele Jacket
But I'm getting crunk and probably hella ratchet
Me and Ether, Saint John's Road, got that weed fever
But dawg, what I really want is that sweet beaver
[Verse 2: The Etherealist]
Don't f** with the Madk**a, gorilla, sk**-spiller for dillas
I'm building a bigger picture; you 'nilla than f**ing Hitler
The sickest whigger to ever hit the f**ing game:
It's E-92 blinding you; shining through for f**ing days
Five Saints slays; rap's AKs point at your face
Haters fugaze'; devils be just a f**ing craze
I'm a-f**ing-mazed that you still try'na f** wit'
I'm rugged. Ether and E be puffing on that crunk sh**
You s** dick. Sizzaints is out for the duckets
Lost a few but we be balling and causing a ruckus
Yo f** this; 92 don't give two f**s
Piss off the Saints and M-80s will get your crew pumped
Glue guns be jetting down your throat: burn your insides
But you love dick so much, it's probably like your Wednesday night
Your gay pride: it shines through when you rap
ba*tards get dragged a**-back through acid baths
[Verse 3: E-92]
TO BE CONTINUED