Drop The World (Remix)
Producer of the Year
Eclips The Monster

Chi-Town Hustlers

I got a box full of pictures, and a list full of names
And I'm strapped with hell of pistols looking for the rap game
Because these niggers act lame, and it fucks up my moves
But let me find one of you by yourself and you're screwed!
I tell them that it's war and I'm ending the feud
But niggers don't want it like white people food
Because I'm too hot
Bitch, I'm in the one and number two spot
Bet my music hit you like I smacked you with a boombox
You niggers just warm, and in this mode, I am Kaboom hot
Man, I be so fly, you think I ate a couple moon rocks
These niggers are trying to blow out my flame like this was Hanukkah
But I don't even really give a fuck, so I will just
Pick the world up, but I won't drop it goddamn it
I will shake it until every rapper falls off the fucking planet
These niggers aren't asking for war, so I demand it!
Or you can just put a sock in it, n***a
Can it
Shut up
Pipe down
Hold your tongue right now
Be quiet
Or you will be a victim of the riot
Even blind niggers notice what great look like
It's the sickest on the mic
[Young K]
They call me Paul Pierce
What I spit is the truth
No, call me Beyblade... I be ripping the booth
And I stay with chicks, but I don't live in a coop
I got that shotgun flow, and I'm itching to shoot
I got my crew here, and my paper smooth
For all my doubters, I got one thing to say to you
Not only are we getting fame, and we're making moves
But our fucking flow is hot, like Jamaican food
And the cats that want to get cake with us
Back then used to laugh and just hate on us
Skip them, because now they're all paper struck
Because were making' bucks...
What the fuck they gone say to us?
Yeah, and I'm still a divine soldier
Spit bombs... lyrically a mind blower
You ain't a grind holder
Your clock got a due expiration date
That means your time's over

Drop the world on your head like a constipated pigeon
On the wire, I'm sick and tired of shitting on these niggers
I'm killing them from a distance with accuracy and precision
These rappers be inconsistent, they challenge me, and I rip them
Shred them to pieces, treat them like a sheet of paper
I'm after that paper, Alligator, I'll see you later
They used to hate me, now they chase me because they see the paper
Only want it because they're hungry...
You gotta feed the haters
I throw them some money like, "Here, you can eat it..."
So it gotta be hatred to still say that I'm conceited
The way I'm spitting, even Ripley's wouldn't believe it
How I'm killing features, laying them down like Tempur-Pedic
[Kidd Khaos]
Echoes of Legends tell me that real men never cry
But they ever lie, because tears flow from my eyes
My challengers Mayan calenders predicting my demise
But I still go, go though the coldest winters rise
Walking through the snow, as I roll it's no surprise
That the higher that I reach, it'll be less people at my side
No heartache is derived
Because I'm looking up to God
Hope he'll save me from infirmities, firm in me
I'm beside eternity so I ride
Counting down every second
Until I blow up, because my mind's an eternally loaded weapon
A ticking time bomb, my style of rhyme is effective
It's so clear and addictive, they call it the Crystal Method
Pattern me, so I check it... it's hard to be in remission
Because the words of haters echo, it's hard for me to forgive them, but...
I chop the beef with the flames, it's Hell's Kitchen
And today, them rappers out of the game, because I evict them