st ars

Spitting straight bars, ensure the job is done

Killing they corpse, it's all to pocket lunch

Stealing, brake fast his car is junk

No rapper matches my tractor they all just grains

An ant to a tarantula, a cell to brains

I excel at brains, ink and hype

I think and write when they on the brink of fighting

I stink at life but still I might paint a picture

Pop post traumatic stress disorder in ya

Most of artists can't think beyond getting richer

I figure I can hone my literature