Verse 1:
It's that... 95 style flow from the tombs. Holdin' ya doom, in palms, with these smoldering tunes. It's potent, a**ume, flow smokin', indulgin' on shrooms, Evokin' the boom, bap, openin' hope to consume. I wrote it wit prunes, get it? And stay slaying up mics. Bring back fros and picks like we breaking up ice. No taking advice, from weak, I'm placing sacred esque lines, on chasers behinds, cuz everything I make is divine. Takin my time to perfect it, young'n that track tackler, Snatching up wack rappers, I'm rap's black Dracula. I send rappers to cla** when attacking, and school pop culture. To stop posers, replace em wit Big and Pac posters. I got holsters, and they packed full of intellect. Here to remind you like a Jesus piece on a sinners neck. That vintage esque, flow is in effect, so get to hitting deck. My pen a threat, and leave these instrumentals when I'm finished dead
Hook 1:
Tell em the boom bap is back. Wack rap where ya caskets at? And I be flowing, so you could put them other rhymes aside, cuz ima kick it like it's 95. It's cla**ic
Verse 2:
Young arsonist, artist wit bars that's charred and lit, You arctic spit, even Tarzan a target, if he target this. You sparrin' with a narcissist, did y'all forget my Martian wit? Im volcanic, explains why all my targets hit with Parkinson's. It's marvelous, markin' sins all over with palettes, opponents get challenged, The flow is dope, so hope you can balance. Uh...Toe taggin' and rappers is throat gaggin', sick of acidic missiles I'm spitting, it's no slackin', I enter like fo' dragons when rippin' these dope tracks and, bring back the flows you missin', with mo' action. I'm Shakespeare, I shake spears at the ma**es, they adhere, like they had eight ears in my cla**es. Radio stay slipping, them labels will pay em high fees and, say sayonara to pioneers so the mic's grieving. I might leave em, bleeding whenever I'm speaking, I am hip hop so if it's dead, then why am I breathing? And it's all that...so tell em the boom bap is back. It's cla**ic
Hook 2:
Tell em the boom bap is back, wack rap where ya caskets at? And I be flowing, so you could put them other rhymes aside, cuz Ima kick it like it 95. Its cla**ic. Tell em the lyricism is back, where them real rap listeners at? And I be spitting, so you could put them other rhymes aside, cuz Ima kick it like it's 95. Its cla**ic
Verse 3:
I deserve, recognition, impeccable mechanism, for wreckin' and lettin' rhythms endeavors affect the missions. However, I'm debtin' victims, and you know what they say. I turn my foes into prey, cuz repetition is settin' into they sentences, incisions to witnesses, when he finishes. This is just, acidic to listeners, hittin' critics with prisoners homes. Eccentric and rippin' up drones, enter a menace's dome, wicked and sinister, hold, heat like I'm grippin' the chrome. Ignorant, whether mainstream or unsigned, Rapping like they hitting coke, the only time they punch lines. I dump rhymes on the dumb minds and unwind the ma**es. It's Colombine when you combine these unmindful tactics. My raps is, on tablets, so it's like Moses jotted it. Flowing hot with the potent, like golden stones when I spoke it. And it's like 95 when I spit flows, the bar is high get on ya tiptoes. It's cla**ic
[Hook 2]
Yeah, 1995 flows. From six feet. Spit heat on these sick beats