Running through (Sample. .)

Representin’ the 732!
Yeah! It’ll be good, though. Listen to this.
Yep, here I go.

Introducin’ the man who ran through Sudan
chewin’ a Toucan Sam gram of fruit shit.
See, I drops rhymes so astute, they stupid.
So sweet, when I speak ’em, it’s leavin’ me toothless.

Listen, the useless braggadaccio bars that you spat
we so cracked, it’s as if you took a crack at a barge
full of rocket-launchin’ rats sick with SARS,
while bein’ whipped with piss, like Stifler. Hardy-har.

Cars cars, hoes hoes, haters, and po-po.
Mars Bars hold mo’ flavor thank most folks.
So broke, most blokes, hopin’ nobody knows
these foes not emcees, but, yo, beats with jokes.

But not me, see, see. Pull the seat you’re in close,
hey, be easy, creams and peaches are most
at bay. OG, you can eat your thin toast,
while I bake a whole cake to send straight down your throat.

Now you know you’re in for it, exponentially Essential.
My potential is tremendous, from the tip of a pencil
to the lead on the page, I get a standing ovation
for outlandish vocation, they drop dead on the stage.

Never let ’em get afraid enough to settle the rage
with a level-eight phaser gun, with settable rates
of fire. I fire higher than a telephone wire.
Leave my prior adversaries hangin’ off ’em, like, hey,

Lace-tied Nikes, you can see the entire
universe when you done heard the words that I fired
off. I cough better than the rhymes that they softly
let off, leave you feelin’ like twin cups of coffee

entered your bloodstream for every single dumb team
of thugs, and that’d be a Starbucks full of caffeine.

Let me grab my sword, slice it foot to your brain.
Icin’ crooks entertains me, the blood of the Slain
rains as pain flies out through cries, eyes diced out,
you can’t see me. I’m nice, like ‘Pac, shy pouts

are heard, word for word, from each bird that I herd
into pens to hold men that can only slur words.
Homey, your verbs are blurred, and Absurd, so, clown, step down,
turn around, and take, that shit on back to the burbs.

‘ Fact, it’s the W ackest get plat shit, Disturb-
ing, as the Fac t that when you rap, two-thirds
of the audience blurts, “Boo,” and worse, “Fuck you,”
you Struggle, on the Mic, jump off of stage, and then bust through,

truck through a bunch of thugs rushin’ to bust you
for fuckin’ their buzz up, with your Buckets of, rough spew.
And I get cheers, before I even pick up the mic,
spit up a nice Six bars, and hitch up a Ride.