Monday, January 14, 2008

I slam with grammar, refuse to sqeeze hammers in rap,
amuse the peeps by the pack or a bunch, I have more styles,
than Shaolin monks, son. Who I am the son of a Gun,
who hates violence, kept my self in silence,
now I broke it, I drop dope hits, bless the mic
like the pope kid, the loads of inspiration,
I get from staring at the starts,
I came from far, I aim for the target,
spark the segments of the market,
while others are selling out, I dwell
in my thoughts, poetry patterns
I brought is smoking, I am not joking,

Chicks say I am mean, I fiend for the green,
like a rastafarian, But I do not smoke,
I set the scene, I step in my boots,
through any town, hold it down,
freestyles are flowing, I feel the mic glowing,
I step on stage, break out the cage like a lion,
It will take a lot of heat to melt the iron,
I chill for real and build further on,
the foundation, the amazing spiece from the
endangerd island, remain the golden soul,
to inspire young and old,


About This Blog

About This Blog

  © Mlb-Rumors by 2008

Back to TOP