"Yo, I got stress on my
brain it causes chest pains
inside the best frames
ghetto blood clots is scored by
slug shots
and drug spots, well if you're too poor to move out
or get a new
house, it's like livin in a war walkin through shootouts
And you doubt God exists, when
hard fists
be poundin on your head like jackhammers
You're trapped in the black drama, you hear the laughter
seconds after that you fade out, you're played out, you're laid out
Your
heart nearly gave out, you're lucky that you made out
with just a few scars when the beating ends
The streets let ya breathe again
But evil men, will soon be on the receiving end
of Universal Law, I'm callin on the meek and the poor
To fight back and never forfeit the day you have to go to war
With forces that are armed upon the seven continental borders
A mental fortress is essentials to absorb this
My sword hits the human orb until it orbits
In the art of war kids see Grym Reap be morbid
Since pieces of the lost civilization in the past
Had my photographs etched inside of pyramids
To laugh at this revelation, without 365 days of concentration
and twenty-four hour meditation, would be foolishly pagan
I'm ancient as 'amen', see I stay Grym
Throwin fools in in a pit full of pit bulls to be shaken
Or strapped to the crossroads of Hell and inner sin
Which
trap the sinners in, to sell such in Sing-Sing
I bring Grym tidings, tidal-ed your wave all not exciting
Stop riding the dick, start writin your own shit
Cause I stick figures that think they
fat and can't rap wind blast
I make em Slim Fast, lookin like stick figures
I'm all that, I bag
chips at concerts and shows
Get more panties than hoes that boost Victoria Secret clothes
Foes is tagged like exposed toes at the coroner's
Kids with cold feet rise and fall like the barometer
Grym will mentally chop your career
See shit is locked down here, like penitentiary blocks in tears
Escape outta your ducts every time you hear my name
you better
duck fate, or catch a fuckin face full of duct tape
You get smacked like a trick that sniffed off her
money
Then smoked like Rzarectah with the blunts dipped in honey"
"Hey you little rich kid, what's your beef?
Come and tell the Grym Reaper all of your grief
You asked for a Benz and you only got a Jeep
Your pop's got endz, but yo he's mad cheap
Maybe you're a bastard child you think
Mom and dad are white and you're dark as ink
Maybe you're Sicilian with a tan
But you
hate lasagna and the pizza man
Now you stand on the gravedigga lot and
You're singing the blues about the rough life you've got
Not! You don't wanna live no more
I guess you're really ready for the graveyard tour
When you get home just seal up your
windows and your doors
Turn your oven on
high for about four hours
Light you a
blunt, kiss your ass goodbye
You gassed yourself cos it's a suicide!"
"it's Too Poetic, ain't nothing to fuck with"
