A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z #


"Bury Judas (Game Diss)"

[Verse 1: Shyne]
This little buster name the Game wanna rhyme like Po
Cuz I rhyme like gold
I rhyme like, I be climbin' out that Rolls
The nine I let it blow, put 5 up in ya clothes
Head shots leave you slumped, reclinin' through ya door
Oh'- this is blasphemy
Ya whole entire career patterned after me
I got shooters out in Cali that will blast for me
Your forgot, I put your chest where your back should be
Tec squeeze off rapid speed
I'm in Paris at the Plaza, blood, ask for me
Ungrateful bast*rd, say your grace after meal
Bow down pay homage and ask to breathe
? Shyne, Michael, or Moses, homicidal motives
Thinkin' this is showbiz, I will put you with the blowfish
Hand on my toasters, Lamborghini roadsters
Gave these rappers life but I turn them into ghosts

I think I'm Big Wolf, Young RZA
Clay Bone, squeezing triggers
Gangland, we the mob
Shyne M-F Po, rap god
I think I'm Big Wolf, Young RZA
Big U, squeezing triggers
Gangland, we the mob
Shyne M-F Po, rap god

[Verse 2: Shyne]
Smoking the Cuban, twisting on my sidelocks
This sideway representer with them sideshots
9 shots from that 6 or 9 Glock
My alibi done bought it sunny at the sky box
Fraud dudes, must be on that dog food
Ain't nothing change Gangland still mob rules
Still flexing, still netting off that god jew
Send you straight to the mob, ain't no law suit
Ehh my little Apostles gospel, new gold flow
Blew breath into your nostrils, homie god knows
I'm the Adam that you bow to, realest alive
Ya red flag is a costume, this mobster's Jewish
The talk is useless,morning blast but you
In the bask with embalming fluid, I bomb
The rugis, dump you in the pond you sewage
I think im Big Wolf, I ain't suing
Yeaaa, get what you came for, big bad blood eh
What you scared for? I shoot the butterfly off your face
And tell Jesus Piece, smile at your wake, Yeaaa
I'm your faith you pray to Shyne when you say your rhymes
I'm the great mob ties state of mind empire state
Bow down say your grace


[Verse 3: Shyne]
Act like broade and I'mma act like god and take your life
I clap that, black mag off, see these rats rap hard
Till I pap pap ya'll, broad day bullets blow your snap back off
See I trapped that, hard that, smacked that raw
I ain't proud to talk about the facts, as all
In that black back, call that black rap ma
Mf po shyne, black rap god, I'm Milton Bradley
I made the game, I gave em fame, but I an't perfect
I made mistakes ,I made a lame, what's up blood
Yous a little dummy, my cheerleader, now you flip flopping
Like you run me, you know you love me, rapping like you was me
Deported from the country, now your memory got fuzzy but
I'mma take you back I'm New York like Bumpy, California like Bungee
Carter im a marter, Jewish mobster like Bugsy, seagull dessert eagle
Myalinsky like lucky, clap you, clap Puffy, feds can't touch me
Shot's are so deadly, Shyne M-F Po, oh so godly

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z #

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