Flatline (Diss 3)

Ain't nobody like and praise you for the music that you make
Make a diss on me, you lay deceased, can't undo your mistakes
I got angles for your song, all them claims you make is wrong
Let me see receipts and tell you where I get my beats, I'm cookin' up
You beggin' for me recipe, it's something that you want to be
Honestly, bite my style, I know your fatass stay hungry
Under me is a clown, foot to face tastin' the ground
I can keep on pushing you down, lil clown, keep on testin' me now
Get some better damn writers they be spazzin on the perc'
Know them people be some liars, spittin' bullshit when they jerk
Talking about a fucking shootout, left some glue on your mouth
I got tools too bitch, what the fuck you about?
Three features, your allegiance, it ain't shit when its on pape
I could pull a different card for every person on your wave
Talk about them allegations, talk about how you like rape
Talk about being fatherless, I fathered you bitch
You my son, step away, look directly at the sun
I'm a star, you're a dwarf, shit not classified as none
I could roll you up, hit the blunt, and still not be as phased
Why you out here actin' hard like we playing damn charades
Its a shame, you playing with your life
Should've learned from the bench and kept on playing lil polite
Ima get down to your level, I'm not gonna speak twice
I don't like your fucking music, I don't like the way you write
I don't like the way you boast and I don't like the way you speak
Looking like an open faucet by the way you gonna leak
Keep on playing on my name, you gon' see what I'm about
Keep on playing on my name, you don't wanna go that route
Keep on playing on my name, black lights, I knock him out
Keep on playing on my name, hold up, lets check him out
Fabricating every verse, tryna look for where it hurts?
Yea, my girl had left me, that was in October third
I'm not in a damn depression, load the glock, a Smith and Wesson
You pressin' the adolescent who cooking like Iron Chef and
Think I'm using your name?
Settle down, where's your glory and fame?
Where's the bitches you fuck?
I got my reputation off of being fucking good
You done got your lil affection off of faking from the hood
I could probably name your shooters, probably used to fuck with me
Probably help me bust shots at people who talk shitty
Running through your city, man I own you like a dog
Walk you down the block, your career ain't takin' off
Your shit pure soft, I just go off
I can push shit further, this that lyrical murder
This that man who's heard of, this that shit hurt ya
This that man that bury ya, don't play on my name