[Intro]
Out here slayin' like its World War 3
Schutzstaffel org, of the NYC
Got your b*tch with two bruised knees
I sure as f*ck can tell you, that's a guarantee
[Verse 1]
Bad b*tch serve food to me on a whim
Just worked out your hoe like a f*ckin' gym
Looks like your neck needs a f*ckin' trim
Stop speaking gibberish like a damn Sim, yeah
I'm back in the Lambo, stackin' some piles
Decipher if bodies or cash, it might take a while
They f*ck me like they wanna carry my child
These b*tches worship me, almost saying "Heil!"
Got some hoes for my crew, but we don't f*ck with thots
But, I sure as f*ck can tell you, I love some whiskey shots
Somehow both those things end back on plot
All we want now is my boy Chris back on top
[Interlude]
My two wallets make my ass look fatter
Makeup makes hoes look like the Mad Hatter
Like they got f*cked and mixed in Blatter
Yet, just enough to give motherf*ckers a splatter
[Verse 2]
In a few hundred years, I'll be nobody or influential like Malcolm
Specially when, I release these f*ckin' insane albums
Specially when, I feel like I was carved by f*ckin' Adam
They best build a statue of me made out of pure platinum
I'm in my own f*ckin' zone
You best watch my f*ckin' throne
'Cause there's no such thing as a Geo Clone
So somebody put 'Ye on the phone
[Outro]
All my opponents couldn't beat me with all their might
I'll have an easier job than a nazi killin' a kike
All through the dim lights of the night
Isn't that quite a sight?