What

(album: Dead Flowerz - 1996)

It's the...
The inventor, the wicked ice cold as the winter
As niggas enter
The dragon, the 44 got my pants sagging
For all the ruckus bring the paddy wagon
The terminator, the bitch ass nigga eliminator
The suicide contemplator
For your delusions I bring wicked disillusions
To cause mass confusion
I be the, nigga bucka, the hood-rat, titty bar bitch fucka
Got niggas screaming "What the fuck!", see when
I'm down with Lord Maji, and we both yelling die
Die nigga, we coming for ya
You wanna fresh style? Lemme show ya
Bitch, verbally ya never heard of the
U-N-H-O-L-Y 'cause I'm hell of a...
Nigga, WHAT

I insist, real life suicidalist
And for this I'm a white man's terrorist
I never miss when I squeeze the chrome in my fist
Mob style, I'll make your ass drink a glass of piss
High roller, money folder
Underground rap radio controller
The bone breaker, the thug shaker
From here to Cleveland, nigga run run
Or catch the dum-dums
Dumb-ditty dum, do-wa-ditty
Esham, I'm from Detroit city
I flip more tactics than acrobatics
Doing hat tricks with prophylactics
Unholy, that's what my momma told me
Now I do, all my dirt, by my lonely
And most niggas wanna kill you when you slanging ki's
I clock dollars while they catch Z's
Nigga, WHAT

Nigga what...

This one right here, this one goes out to...