Behold my reign of destruction…
Triple H ’05 type shit.
Ass wiping with the
same hand I write with.
Leapin’ Lenny Poffo
with the poetry on frisbees.
Throw em at your fuckin’ faces,
as you’re asking, “yo, who is he?”
It’s Lewis Morris, nigga.
Back from exile.
Getting back on the mic
is like walking the green mile.
All my former peeps
sharpening pitchforks in the aisle.
So, I got like three minutes
and ten seconds before I die, so…
Consider this my last will.
Ate a fucking pop tart as my last meal.
Couldn’t even toast it.
Language always corrosive…
I got battery acid for saliva.
So, my spitting makes me
a fire hazard to my listeners.
Tone it down, and dilute
the acid with some water.
Now, I’m signable.
Maybe start making some
NPR rap, like macklemore
minus the white and all the hits.
Then I’ll move to an apartment
in the sunken place with Chris.
Fuck that shit, nigga.
Take pride in my ugliness.
Sketchy for life,
fuck what you heard. No discussing it.
Fresh outta fucks to give,
I spent em all on scratch tickets
to the chagrin of the misses.
ILL equipped for this shit.
This season of the heel turn.
We are enemies.
Steen with the pop-up power bomb,
are you with me?
Yeah…. Bear
witness to my havoc
as ya boy pushes his voice
through the static.
The noose I tried to hang
myself with is now a neck tie.
Resurrection of ZEUS.
Got a pocketful of lightning as proof
ready to shoot.
Between my brain and loose lips,
who owns the words the I speak?
It’s like negotiating child custody.
Fucking suddenly,
I’m back to sleeping on my momma’s couch,
while she watches Madea flicks,
I’m steady plotting my way out.
When it rains, it pours.
Every comeuppance is a fortune.
Feels like dwelling on fuck-shit is
how I release endorphins.
Uh….
Recognize my greatness.
Nigga, I got no patience.
I’m a fucking hater of fake shit.
And, nigga kiss ass
to grip cash, it’s more basic
then white girls and
pumpkin spice lattes. Let’s face it.
Lord knows, they better hope
that I’m never at the helm,
cuz if I am, niggas are
getting banished to the shadow realm.
The ampersand, nigga.
The 27th Letter.
Ain’t none of you
simpleton nigga do it better.
DONE.