Qwel - Chicago Barbeque lyrics

UHH Qwel Summer heat stroke Have a heat stroke So this one joe goes there was this flow that boasts he totes a gun Dont know his promo caught some fingers up till he saw both of them But now his sh** is jaded Played himself, hes gonna see me Checked me once, stepped, said whats up, and copped another cd Me be hell breathing back He needs to ask to spar with qwel Start to scar your shell toes I suppose its hard to tell The battles half the lesson The cats strapped with automat four sevens Beat you half to d**h twice Send white light back for seconds Rest when less than me aint good enough Hoods and thugs rough wont cut it What if all this tough rug thug stuff aint really what what is Is it my job to own this f**ing mic until it starts to melt The dark starts to yell I suppose its hard to tell Start to yell back But theres not enough mics to rock He likes to flow But the dikes are locked On his writing spot Theres too many mc's And not enough mics to rock He like to flow But the dikes he like to strike with mics are locked a lot There was this other joe once Covered in gold front ego Im bu*ter with mics He stutters with ice And wonder where that weed go He showed prose in his time Compose lies his rib cage Hungry not just for my mic Blocked every blow with his face And now he spits with a limp And thinks his sh**s a zeplin The blimps his head wet to the ground ga**ed Drowned, and unleaded Found his rep, disconnected His best sh** was pantomime! Jagged his chance to shine impressed He left a fan of mine Grab the mic for sale And barter rap to use But lost to qwel again Who had to snag an autograph for proof ... Just one more time ... Just one more time ... For the last time ... Caught a heat stroke ... Man second hand contact is cancerous The trouble with guessin is Doublin questions is All the answers did Ask your man to spit, sh** We bendove No shenanigans Brandishin claims you f**ed inannimate Nope the pen broke But aint it grand makin mannequin Canned amusement And all the while, man The fans can't stand the music The producers credits is With the critics rappin crevices Offensive Get in line We help design them flippin fetishes The measurements are evidence aint nobody tight Cuz when he spit veterans bite like, oh but hes right Insight precise incisions witness witty wisdom like The system bustin out the seams with dreams are lived in this mind