[Dosone]

All these rappers, man--
They just want to be the boss
It's like watching a bunch of clerks fight
Over a better title

Title, whod'a thought I wouldn't get it
Didn't want a crown that never fitted
Halo-lidded as it is
And poison-pitted
Spit acidic couplets
'Bout new low self-image
And I'm kitted
With a vicious set of wits
And how I pick apart a bitch
Is quickly by the artishness
(Or lack thereof!)
I'll re-use every part of it:
Clavacle to cartilege. No love
Or quarter shall be given
To the weak of gift who drub
And shopping-list the shit outta they rookie raps (No! No!)

Get these young'uns milk 'n' cookies back (Oh!)
And wash off all their wishful thinking caps (Oh!)
Who don't know how to axe (Oh!)
Probably the nicest thing I can say about that
Capitalist trash you call music

And when I get my mind-corrects
My proper dues and due respects
My debt, my staff, and dollar stacks
I'm gonna chuck the twenties back

(chorus)

Can you see the lies
Most truth kill a death
And I'm done with all that
You ain't fit and you ain't phat

Tongue side good guy, smash smart phone face
Bury bone pile, poem wild grown ape
Not beaten, not nice even-nail eating tip finger
Beat beating Norse heathen, super sick leather seven
With a hat and some coke to spit, sliced heaven
I forged that, grown, and gave it wit

Did you hide from the sky when it barked and shot?
Or ride in to die, hard place rock
And no joy, and all that fear-packed white noise
Fun fact: I am rap poise that do spite you
That which don't douse you do most likely ignite you
These the maze part (?) faint heart dark circles I life through
Day night pen knife like who do diffuse and shrink
A man removes his shoes and thinks:
'What, uh, what do I really got
In it? And why would I walk these coals
When they still hot?'

Or get loud in the city where I smoke my throat
In the land of dope, beat vandal pope
Edgar Oh regret me no death I go
At it like a small man loves his things
One motherfucker, four affordable rings
This bad D-O-S-E-O-N-E is what he sings
And I lives what I swings, bleed a swole pen out
Inks, thinks, frees
Where my few friends at?

You can run from your prick
You can run from your past
You can run from bein' bitch
But can't run from all that. (x2)

(Chorus x3)