>Dont front on a KING...

I front on self-proclaimed Kings, that show nothing but talk
That's ill-prepared for gettin hawked, and traced by white chalk
Ya rhymes is soft, unskilled, girly or real daughter
not sturdy, you heard me, they weak like month quarters.
A tragic individual, disgustingly pitiful
My lines like dem smart bombs that wreck da citadel
take a hint or two I give you a inch or two
You like a stench, hell bent, I vent to get rid of you
I'm detected fear from moment you clicked reply
I eject a stare from the pit of my third eye
ya hopes drop when shit is hot like ice sickles
I dedicate this gab to whenever the real hits you
You featherweight son so ya jabs feel like tickles
Ask yourself why did he pick you, rhyme stick you
why ya team and they crew and they gunz let im get you
It's Whateva black the veteran of attacks
I'm salutin hip-hop by breakin ya damn back

Don't front..