These cats acting stupid. Backpack packing juices. Rappin lacking substance. Add in cussin and it's as passed as music. Lyrically gamblin. You crap shootin. Shooting crap from that trap. You thinks it's Pac, man. I want my Cam Newton.

That means I want my QUARTER BACK from Arcade games. I even got a SECOND STRING attached. I told you this is more than rap. You can't hang. I just send it back to the kitchen like I aint order that! And I aint tryna name names. .


But. I can rap some random stuff and add it up like "let's ask this pack of bears with brown hair to dance with us. And throw chairs at all the children in the stands who's acting up to all the parents giving us stares. I really don't think they laugh enough."


See? It's so easy. Now let me make a group of misfits and call em Normal Past, put out a platinum cd. Beef with Internet rappers put a gap between my teeth, and we'll see if I'm the best of all time. Yall can't see me. . . 16 a week, b.