Good Things Die

With all the beauty in my life, hit the mic 'till the lights out
Bet Barrack play this in the White House when his wife's out
I got that good shit, purple with them orange veins
People say that yours taste like a wood chip
You rookies push shit, million dollar rapper, DiBiase on the mic
While you all is sloppy like the brothers Bushwack
Pop had put his cock in momma's bush back
In '78, the doc saw my face and tried to push back
Yeah helmets? all ribs broken
I'm an angel of death that taketh what the lord gives
What gives? Every written's all fibs
Ya'll bids phony, fishing in the dolphins
And mermaids, sayin' Burbank relevant
It's like using dog bags pickin' up the turd of an elephant
Sayin' you ain't feelin' it, you full of shit, fell in it
Wipe off and shut your mic off before I yell in it

See any day could be your last, quit living in the past kid
You want drama, take a class, get your phd
See any moment I could pop out and leave you seein' asterisks
Cause when it comes to spittin' raps I got my phd

Now Verbal's said he's having fun
So I say fuck it let me join in no avoidin' it, appointed let the static run
These half-a-ton rappers claiming they ready
I have the sun wrapped around my neck, chain gettin' heavy
I got the planets aligning with the planning to sign it
Then have them standing in line to see me ranting and rhyming
They gassing you up with all those additives lying
You buying that shit, what kind of fucking planet am I in?
I'm off that, respect gettin' respect it's nothing left for the rest
I fucking called it so I'm getting it next
I got the shit to make it fucking feel something deep and something real
Surface-level rappers wonder why they don't fucking appeal
We give them real shit, real shit
I want to be that rapper that they feel like they could go get a meal with
Or split a cab with or share a tab with
My mother call me Chris, I give a fuck about this rap shit