Who would’ve known that the moment I rapped on the
Mic it would gold, or at least that’s I was told
Rippin’ through everything, rapping on any beat;
That’s how my story just goes
Even my 808’s shaking the floor
Braking the speakers, creating a hole
This sh#t is made for a stadium sport
This sh#t is made for me to explore
Pages of paper playing a major role in a
Life that I’m thankful for. With a
Pen in my hand and some air in a bottle cuz
I am so fire I’m heating up the PSI of my room
Living in a frickin’ vacuum
Guns can’t even fire at noon
Cuz I’m in the studio but I’m still coming out the shell like
Buckshots when I shot beats
A damn drop can’t pause me, I’m…
Artistic conscience
Doesn’t need no profit
So if you’re feeling off then
You’re completely garbage
I’m not an offspring that started with pistol popping, I
Missed two digits in my clock and now I’m busy often
2400/7 I recognize
Every drum pattern, I’m shredding up, every beat
Pretty much had it. I’d rather go die than to
Stop when I have it n’ grab some supplies in my
Grave when I’m panicking. See from a far, can’t be-
Lieve I am back again. Leave when I start to com-
Pete with the madnesses. Deviant Art wouldn’t
Even imagine it
Find more lyrics at westlyrics.com
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