Uh
Verbs, vent, verbs, vent, verbs, vent
Feel me

Verse 1 (DN3 member 1):
Verbs is a powerful word, a move in a v
Replaced with a nature and all I do is puff herb
Writing my script in a language flowing out of my bank
And others tryna quarantine me but my style’s so sick
I’m a freak of nature, coming on some sideshow shit
So hurry hurry, step on up, click, tapped and butt
Act like I won the lottery and pass out bucks
Blaka, blaka, I know them shots stopped ya, stopped ya
Just figured your features, flip dough like making a pizza
I roll with creatures, handguns stashed in the speakers
Hugging the block, crack rock tucked in his sneakers
Where are my answers? N***a, ‘cause I ball all day
Nonathletic, big cash, lines of credit
I know you regret it, stitched up, screaming for medics
Shit in a bag, forever the medallion you had
Loaded and grabbed, hot shells come with a tag
I’m raising a flag, hell raiser blaming my dad
He’s blaming my moms, shit, man, I’m blaming the times
Concrete jungle, the corner be the watering holes
And the walls covered with paint acknowledging souls
Lost in the struggle, but yo, remain in the hustle
Scars that bubble, sport them with our jailhouse muzzles
Covered in tats, yo, I’m just stating the facts
Ducking from cops, sneak out and ducking from pops
Stay on the grind, and get shit my peeps don’t got
Verse 2 (DN3 member 2):
You better get them oven mitts ‘cause we makin’ it hot
And we hot to death like we David Koresh
He got uh three on his chest instead of a nest
Spit rhymes everyday ‘cause the economy tight
And Mr. Bush tellin’ you that everything is alright, psych
I say that hip-hop it went to hell
And that it can’t be saved and that’s according to Mel
Oh, you cats is gangsta, you step and be hurt
You’re not a person, you’re just another white t-shirt
Ya better... check your Pampers son, I’m so bad with it
Cats be like, "What the hell is the matter with it?"
And watch your french fries ‘cause you know I’m fast with it
To smite peace, yo, we takin’ out the trash with it
Precise and sharp like the feminine singer
We break the knife off in the back, subliminal finger
Your finance intact, but the enemy’s broke
The Kennedy wrote America with synergy, nope
Rhyme writers like to take it to that physical shit
And catch a scale to your throat but we stripping the fish
Now ease back, but y’all some run of the mill
What you forsaken, your tracks he displaying
And the salary he’s making
From getting on that federal shit
And take your man, take it to the next level with him
Hey ya, suck it up and just come clean
Come on, dawg, your shit is faker than the club scene
Verse 3 (O’hene):
Y’all better hit the road like Dusty
It’s O-H-E-N-E on the microphone, I’m never rusty
Matter fact, let me rap this
I tell you to your face, "Dawg, you need more practice"
Yo you ain’t got one spleen, matter fact no spine
None of y’all can rhyme like I rhyme
I jump on the track just to prove I’m in my prime
O-H-E-N-E of course, I’m [?]
Look at my freestyle, my beat’s wild
None of y’all can be like I be, child
Look, y’all just mad at us ‘cause I’m intellectual like Pythagoras
You get risen like Lazarus when you hear me
You emcees is mad to death
I’m like Mac and Beth, mad theater
O-H-E-N-E of course like Theodore
You cats is cute to me, you’re not rhyming
My lyrics come off beautifully, I’m in time and
Plus I help Christ like Simon
Got the mental to prove that in this game I be Common
You think that your little lyrics matter, please
I got Pentium type data and these mentals that I hold up
Very simple, plus I’m known to teach up in Temple-
-slash-[?], none of y’all can do what O-H-E-N-E or O’Hen do
Please, that’s simple