OMFG Lyrics

Yo, these lames emcees got the game twisted

They got the same beliefs and the same image

The same routines and the same gimmicks

And they got the same disease from the same bitches

You and me, we were raised different

I'm from a place where Santa didn't pay visits

St. Nick can get the K if he plays witness

You'll get the blade, dig your grave up in St. Ignace

Listen, I got the vision, no optometrist

Spittin' wisdom, droppin' knowledge on these college kids

I got the .44. No Obama shit

Extended magazines, we don't call 'em clips

Look, I've known Pushas, it's No Malice

Half my family sold drugs, half were dope addicts

Half these rappers are wack trash with no talent

The other half below average, they're no challenge

I'll drink your blood from a gold chalice

I don't really give a fuck who you sold crack with

I'm not one of your fans you can go catfish

Hmm, they sleepin' on me like an old mattress

I've been known to keep it on me just to go practice

Blow your brains on your spouse, Jackie Onassis

Pull your tongue out your mouth, so graphic

Now I see what you're sayin', no closed captions

The devastation of a mortal man

Raised in a generation of spoiled brats

Pray for the veneration of loyal fans

SPK all day, we the royal fam

I've been anointed as the one to annoy, attack,

Annihilate, berate, castrate, and destroy the track

I exact revenge with an enormous axe

I enjoy examining and explorin' facts

'Bout to form a task force full of former fans

And storm ya back porch with a fork in hand

Then I'll store your fat corpse in a Ford sedan

Parked in the Black Forest on foreign land

We're fed up with this form of fad

You can get force fed the forty fast

Leave ya on the floor dead with a gory gash

On your fuckin' forehead, split your gourd in half

I turn bullshit to magic like Horace Grant

I'm back to inform you that I craft important raps

Packed with immortal swag, so ignore the trash

And join the pack as the chorus claps

They jump for joy like Jordan's back

Kill 'em all, let the Lord sort 'em last

I got a lust for life if the lawyers ask

You won't get lucky twice, make sure it lasts

I'm a morbid man, mesmerized

By Majora's mask, I'll drop mortars on your morning mass

Yeah, I'd murder more but the morgue is maxed

I'm nauseated when these normies nag

I need an orange black Porsche with performance pack

And a course to quarterback; quick, record it

Soarin' past as they storm the track, I just tore this track

Up with a torrid tact; understand

Vultures want war on wax, must be snortin' Xans

And you're the last zealot with a triple Z

I listen to your shit to get my kids to sleep

I need a feast; you're a snack, somethin' quick to eat

You're on the dollar menu at Mickey D's

If I did not offend you a little, leave

I'll attend ya funeral in some Dickie jeans

Oh my fucking god, as I live and breathe