heard one pop, I shot back(?)!
eventhough I didn't know if it was only my mistake;
sure, I had to counteract, I counldn't take
any chances or blame that on my anxiety attacks.
but granted, my bullet blew before leavin' the chamber
an' painted the foolest picture of a stingin' anger
that's aimed at foreigners an' can fuckin' endanger
even strangers, an' trigger the (r)evolution of hatred
that strangles the hater an' makes allusion to Manson,
mistaken, ill or creator, my fingers itch at my handgun;
am I his grandson?
it stings like a bee, an adamantium wee bee;
it gives me no glee to be this sick, see?
it brings humanity no quantum leap, freak,
havin' itchy fingers, givin' blood a sip,
playin' with triggers an' shootin' from the hip.
thunder roar, this go I'm kickin' back,
runnin' the show, passin' the rock, #22 on my chest.
no more crimes, this time I'm at a different quest:
I'm droppin' dimes an' spittin' rhymes, feedin' my squad's attack.
(an' by the time the half arrives I feel like Steve Nash!)
but when game heats on an' Spike Lee starts to talk trash,
I stop to tame an' off the seats the crowd goes loud, heft;
I grab the range an' my phalanges proudly protest
"we feelin' strange, we didn't change, we don't deserve that!"
it's crunch time, they're probably right, I'll shoot it right an' left!
(this must be why jails are so tight, assassins can't rest...)
this gym has no walls, this game has no rules, no referee.
you can't be just tall, your skills must be complete.
this team has no coach, no jersey an' no rings;
but they know how to ball; no mercy, no defeat.
an' when in the clutch, they have you on a string...
