meh i'm bored might as well, haven't written in a while, so i'm rusty

Twig, holder of a microphone battleaxe
rap tactics is that of a Marshall, I Mathers that
And rap is my home, tomb for wacker raps
spit circles around you, yea, i revolver gats
30 Inches on the car big as your backyard
I slap broads til their fat jaw be hittin the backdoor
And yall, say you can't be understandin this
tryin to re-write my words, but you can't deliver my twists
I spit internal rhymin words flying, shining like a bird
Pyrex pot cook it up, so you could say the birds the word
I rap in your sweet sick dreams with my sweet 16s
My verses slip so lean, I say I'm Mr. Clean
Cuz every time I make a rap, it's got that minty freshness
Yes, I am the essence of the best first impressions
So be aware of my skills, beware that they kill
or you might be the very next victim of the ill

prolly sucks but whatever.

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