By G-d Beaumont

With death comes patience, or the other way around/ I like getting up just so I can fall down/ No concern for the clowns, I've endured greater/ Painstaking truths and other violations/ The way she gyrates is feeling quite lovely/ Love her cause she's pretty, hate me cause I'm ugly/ Built up the wall, she'll find no passage/ Honest, I feel more at home in caskets/ Tired of cheating death, or maybe it's cheating me/ Could never understand what God had saw in me/ I hate stupidity which is why I'll brick/ I'm more compound syllables and artsy shit/ Grown tired of the lies and the feeble alibis/ People will deceive you, come at you in disguise/ I hear the tick tick tock on hip-hop hop/ Beat winding down, bout to sti-sti-stop/ Culture is disposable, tell hell with a quotable/ Everything is fiscal, remember what was told to you/ You, have you no quarrel/ Head in the ground, just a trying to burrow/ What is this world, but of mice and men/ I shrug my shoulders and ignite my pen/ Toss back a brew and delight in sin/ Alive in the night to suffice my end/ Fractured my skull and then bled for some hours/ In Room 407, they sought after his power/ To keep my alive see, but I can't die now/ I'm too stubborn, naw, I won't lie down/ Mom gon cry now, but smiled when woke/ Ask me for words, I struggled but spoke/ Why should I live when others had perished/ What can I offer of merit to cherish/ Countless car wrecks, walked away unscathed/ As if I was Baptist, you would’ve sworn I’s saved/ just a miserable fuck, with sum lyrical knux/ Trying to put together sum residual bucks/ Tired of the beaten, path it’s misleading/ Tired of the tired, rappers I be seeing/ Tired of being broke, sick of all the debts/ Tired of Carolina, with nobody that rep/

 

I hate you as much as I hate me/

You fucks suck, you can’t emcee/

Say you spit, welll baby boy try me/

I’ll hook you up, E.R., I.V.’S

I’m the re-incarnate of B.I.G.

Say you best, boy you lying

I am hip-hop self realizing

And the real there’s no disguising

　

　

 

Think I turned a corner, naw I’m still bitter/ Apollo Creed, bad, and far from a quitter/ Self-deprecating, invading your speakers/ You gon feel me, like you feel Jesus/ Sicker than placenta that covers a fetus/ Hell i’d even kick ass as a paraplegic/ I’m an ill conceived notion that’ll grow into infamy/ Here it is folks, a holocaust of a symphony/ This is me cheery, this is my happy/ And if you whats’ up, duck, daffy/ The critics and the cynics bring life to my lyrics/ Their the motivating tool that nurture my spirit/ Never mind the Bollocks, it’s time for some Crocker/ Waiting for a broad, I’m conducting an opera/ There’s a chip on my shoulder the size of Gibraltar/ Combined with the fervor of a nut at the alter/