Royce Da 5'9" - ILL lyrics

[Intro: Westside Gunn] I'm so ill (Welcome to Hell where you are welcome to sell) I-ill (All scars, we earn 'em, all cars, we learn 'em) I'm so ill (When them shells come, you better return 'em) I-i-ill [Verse 1: Royce Da 5'9"] Uh, I came in here with enforcers and with the goons I never fail, I aim for the stars, came up short and I hit the moon I'm more G than Voorhees before he had the pumpkin face Mac 11 thumpin', chase b**hes never dump them, make 'em get out Control their minds, keep them down on that sunken place Which is why your boy remains on top I tell the baddest b**h around "Hoe, you look like Tory Lanez jump shot" I use to think raw s** was the sacred sh** 'Til I switch to faithful, ate some sushi from off the chest Of a naked chick, now I just be dissing hoes Yeah momma, your son's grown I literally turned down your wife so many times Her p**y lips eyes grilling you while you're licking it with your fronts on Either get out my face or I'm defacin' you with a comment Rappers like a bunch of baby birds waitin' for me to vomit n***a say that they the illest rhyming, now they got to see me I'm what'chu call them Detroit problems, now they got DP Now I got the AR, so now they gotta back up Lying 'til they got a twelve inch nose, now they got three feet I'm who your hoes thirst for, you're the worst floor Took the Book of Ryan, I keep my story low, I'm the first floor [Chorus: Westside Gunn] I-i-ill (When them shells come, you better return 'em) I-i-ill [Verse 2: Conway] Word on the streets is n***as mad, don't ruffle a n***a's feathers Tell them s**a n***as I said, "f** them n***as," whatever You n***as know y'all can't f** with me n***a, never You can line them n***as up, put a bunch of n***as together Yeah, extended clip in the pot The kinda sh** that I'm on is reminiscing the pot Grippin' the Glock, bandana on, look at the cops Pickin' this watch, got the hammer drawn, lift from the top n***a you not no gangsta, you just a rapper, I can tell I can tell it's fishscale, bust the plastic, I can smell This for n***as behind the wall to keep the ratchet in they cell Better stab you 'til you yell, while they pa**in' out the mail, yeah My automatic full of shells, they try to take me out before But I had to just prevail I know the goons, the little savages as well I know the plug, make the call and get a package in the mail It's pa**ionate that I'm rapping with these rap n***as for real Street n***a, but I'm rappin' like I graduated Yale I ain't attracted to the plaques and all the sales 'Cause if I ain't the illest rapper, then actually I failed Look, you must got it confused Come at me sideways, and get you yo' spot on the news You gotta be fooled, shawty get yous, goons body you smooth Put you in a funeral home, body get views [Outro: Westside Gunn] I'm so ill (Welcome to Hell where you are welcome to sell) I-ill (All scars, we earn 'em, all cars, we learn 'em) I'm so ill (When them shells come, you better return 'em) I-i-ill