J.R. Writer - Control Yourself lyrics

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J.R. Writer - Control Yourself lyrics

Uhh Get in tune with a spitter Excuse me I'm sicker What you divin' in ain't a pool full of liquor You rap like you used to share a room with your sister Trap life, we lookin' at two diff'rent pictures You animal food I'll be damned if I lose To the cat that lost to the Charles Hamilton dude How could you claim you nice You let him take your mic Middle of your rap, couldn't even say it right Must be gettin' high Thinkin' you as sick as I What tracks you k**in', you wouldn't k** a vibe You went in why? Take a stroll thru writer's block Use your Gemini's- You don't see I'm twice as hot You sound weird when you jump on the verse n***a I'm outchea when it comes to the first Bundles of work (that crack) Ya'll gon' make me duct tape Mr. Duckworth into dump what he's worth Get a pushed wig- You don't know what good is (why) Like your first album title you's a good kid Time to show this amature a lesson- His whole schemes are full of bad cannabis impressions A Big L offspring, I off kings Tim Dunc when he's balling- False ring Act silly- Get lapped 'till the track dizzy Twist straps that'll smoke you, I call 'em the Black Hippies (blah blah) Debt it This justice is poetic- I'm dumpin' the pump until they yell cut, n***a, no credits You know you haters frontin'- How could he be claimin' somethin'? When all he do is switch his flow and don't be sayin' nothin'? I sketch draw Time to let the lead pour Watch them n***as hauled when it get messy at the mess hall Dead raw Ya'll gon' hafta beg more- You rappin- I'm metaphor punchin' n***as' heads off What you gon' tell a don I gotta check a pawn? Just put a check up on his head, that n***a dead and gone How could you tell me 'wrong'? Dominicans don't wish that you was born there, they wish that you was never born What's his Twitter? Send this body to this n***a- On Control? You named everybody but the spitters (like what?) Like I ain't right here In my Nik' Airs- White pair- I'm the Harlem n***a in your nightmares You really ain't hot I got this thang locked Buncha hard bars, I don't need to name drop Banks stop- Everytime I aim shots- I just had to school boy, he ain't know how J rock