[Verse 1]
Don’t worship me, I ain’t the Lord
I’m a flaming sword with vocal cords that can strangle a St. Bernard
I make sure when it rains it pours
Start language wars until the fluid in your brain is forced to stain the floors
My art is bold yet it’s sort of cold
Bite your face like crocodiles doing piles at the waterhole
And once your camp is raided, bodies are laminated
Maybe I’ll kiss your ring once your hand is amputated
There’s morphine in my bar schemes
I slept for fourteen seconds and had twenty-five eleven part dreams
I got styles in all mixtures
Bury you in the sheet rock behind family pictures in the wall fixtures
The raps that sign, compile and attack minds
And black your vital signs until your flatline flat-lines
K-Rino the great highness teaching at the finest school where students get murdered for making a A-minus

[Verse 2]
When I swing every emcee ducks
I’m the opposite of a menage a trois ‘cause I don’t give three f*cks
Greatness cannot be rushed
When you breathe what I concede you heave of battery acid reflux
I’m lancing you like a panther’s tooth
Catch you in your dancing suit, slice you into chunks and sell cans of you
My pens are like poisonous syringes
I go on war binges and launch missiles like bars from my jaw hinges
Words I mention tend to dismember appendages
Enter his temple then spit ’til his memory hemorrhages
And when these rappers call, I’ma nap ‘em all
And need a paragraph-sniffing cadaver dog to find your dead catalog
I’m flaming men if they ever mention my name again
I claim I been through twenty thousand pens like Chamberlain
Don’t believe I’m a trip, come and see a few clips
I rip unreadable scripts that make vehicles flip
[Verse 3]
I bring to fruition atom-splitting cataclysms
The anachronism with backwards vision and mad animal mannerisms
Candles glisten as phantoms listen
I channel out a random mission, dismantling these planet systems
My monograph’s a clad infurious madness
That smash physical masses to bacterial fragments
My written enigmas are unsolvable
I swept the crowd off their feet once they saw me sweep your feet off of you
As for your flow, half a million folks heard the pose
So no records were sold, meaning you went negative gold
I was dropping new styles in school child
By 22, I was removing crews and puttin’ ‘em on a frozen food aisle
I got a temple gears in my head, infrared pencil lead
What I said in November left December dead
Me and my black-suited ruthless pals
Boost morale by spewing paragraphs that hit like rotten tooth root canals