I've gotta cold k**er appetite for all these new artists/
I'm a living Richard Kuklinski mixed with a Jeffrey Dahmer/
With a dash of that Hannibal Lector and the Zodiac k**er with a Kevlar/
Vest of armor, keepin' a brother hung or lynched, but I'd still feast on ya/
Get these street rappers G-checked like they claim a set/
Run their "real n***a" card through the machine and double check/
Every-and-anybody's gettin' their identity tested when it comes to the Kidd/
Can't put down no more phony n***as in this rap business/
I will clap at n***as, like an audience applause/
The boy is more of an animal than James Howlett's claws/
I'm my own damn boss, but I'm no disciple at all/
Ask Jesus whenever he makes his return who his disciples was/
Or ask Yeezus what them disciples about, dawg/
And that's word to Chicago, they about that real sh**/
Heard that from the n***a ScHoolboy on that "Banger (MOSHPIT)"/
Warn ya momma, I'm on that "bring drama to your front door" sh**/
And make you forfeit the game you thought you was running/
I'll be cruising through the clouds and with my tommy on top gunning/
Rappers, rappers, rappers, pay attention, y'all some actors/
That goes for each and every negro that keep saying "that heat, I'm packing"/
You about to feel the heat when McCarthy comes through smacking/
Anybody who's acting ratchet, and that's word to Emmanuel/
Hudson and his brother, Philip, catch me dippin' like a nacho, k**a/
Double dippin' the chip like Jerry was my neighbor/
And Kramer was pa**ing through my apartment like I owe him a favor/
While George was still discussing a pitch of a show of nothing had flavor/
At the end, Elaine is still saying the same thing she'll end up saying later/
I'm dropping bars without a care, this is a song about nothing/
A///