King of the Dot
"Bender vs Aftershock"
[Verse 1: Aftershock]
f**k Jabba the punk
I will batter and bandage you up
Discuss with my homie see if you'll fit in the back of the trunk
So f**k off with any talk about deep pockets
That money you just put up was a week's profit
I mean speak on it, it's not a question of who gave you the bread
But I just wanna know, how much did your uncle pay you for head?
I mean did he lay you in bed or did he wake you instead?
Matter of fact shut your f**king mouth it smells like AIDS on your breath
They say 'Bender a monster, he a beast with the writing'
You a sheep to a lichen boy I kick in ya' hymen
Shove a knife deep to your right cheek and force your beard into hiding
How you supposed to be a shooter when your Glock on safety?
A lot of you killers, look like clown faggots like John Wayne Gacy
But you got deep-rooted problems, it's something medicine can't fix
If I call you a motherf**ker it's 'cause of ya' Oedipus complex
So you don't pack pumps or keep that gat tucked
This fat f**k act up, he'll get smacked into last month
Leave ya' crew missing like BrassMunk, when I hit 'em with brass knucks
I'll spell death with ya' name and let you meet God
Have B, come to an end, when he lays in the ER
[Verse 1: Bender]
See I was gonna be cool with you, but you called me out, so let the murder begin
Before burning this bridge you shoulda learned how to swim
So talk about how my stomach sag, my punches and my knuckles drag
But you should be the last man that judges me, like Madness with the Ruffles bag
Now when you said you'd lift the 'matic, and sent that little Mista faggot to Mr. Magic, that sh*t was classic
'Cause just imagine this Hispanic Rick Moranis gripping ratchets
You'd get your ass kicked tryna buy a gun, try it son
You'll have doctors taking shots outta you, like liquor cabinets in the Hamptons
So put the money in the bag in an unmarked fashion
Raise a finger I'ma turn you to the one-armed bandit
I'd give my left nut to see son start blasting
How you gonna front like your guns aren't plastic?
f**ktard it's FD, you love our classics
We come hard, play us and the club start thrashing
So f**k a firearm, I'll let one bar smash him
'Cause my gang catch wreck like a junkyard magnet
Guns start clapping, sh*t'll pop off in a second
So tell 'shock to stop talking 'bout weapons
'Fore I block off all the exits, and draw blood, like a Compton cop's composite sketches
I can't stop, won't stop, you get no props
Ask around my juice is off the meter, like a grow op
You stay cool though, I guess you're used to getting a beating
'Cause your boyfriend plays rough when he wears stilettos
He leaves you there to tremble, humming the tune of Aaron Neville's Sexual Healing