(Knoxville)

Okay, back at it, Writer

These niggaz gotta be crazy sayin' we ain't the best in the mu'fuckin' streets

True story



Okay, I get 'em, got 'em, dot 'em when I aim it

Flame it, sit 'em, drop 'em, how can I explain this

Maintenance has changed, I gwop my cash

That make 'em plot the path

But my shotties blast to stretch 'em like a pilate class

Leave his snotty ass coughin' up blaze

Off wit' his braids, now he gotta sport him some waves

Shit, I might toss a grenade

Check the back of the caddy

Lil' Scrappy ain't see more K-K-K's

They'll mourn you for days every morning in shades

I warned you I'm paid, it'll cost you a grave

So doggy behave, or talk to the pave

That's the pavement, when it sprayin' for more different ways

Hey, the paper meche, I'm tearin' 'em up

Lookin' damn good, camp hood, pair of constructs

You dare me to what

Get stomped to the floor, launchin' the .4

I let 'em have it like I ain't want it no more

The it's off to the tour, off to explore

Crossin' the shore, I'm Don Juan, come talk to me whore

I'm raw, fuck the corner store, we cornered the store

Had 'em crwalin' for more, you ain't ballin' at all, dog

Come and cop, you'll float up to the top

This pure dope off boat, it's over for the rock

You dojas need to stop 'fore we roll up on your drop

Wit' a toaster out the box like show me what you got

Give it up, a cap shott you, show me that you're not

Gimme that, that too, don't show me just the watch

Who told you you was hot

Or sick with the pad, we rich and he's mad

That camel needs a cigarette ad

Look, I'm drippin' in swag, piff out the bag

Shift in a Jag, I'll stab any bitch you done had, fag

You's a drag, you gon' pop up who

You just mad that your team is the washed-up crew

Couple months you'll be washed-up too, about 40 years old

They'll nickname ya ass 40 Year HOV, ho

This flow here is cold, I talk and you froze

My talent, sent out this planet and orbit the globe, whoa

Now you know I'm raw, it's raw in your nose

Some'n fresh out the jar, off of the stove

So, stop aimin' them threats or lay where you step

One measly little soldier couldn't take down the set

Holla



Nope, not us, not the movement

There's no stoppin' us, no swayzar

Especially not you

It's over for you brother, it's over man, put it up

You're washed-up dog

You're not Jordan man, stop thinkin' you're fuckin' Jordan

You're Magic, you used to be sick

You're not it man

You're not what the fuckin' people want man

You're swag need viagra, stop injecting yourself with that shit man

For real man, give it up, put it up brother

They rollin' wit' us man, they fuckin' wit' us man

The streets is ours

Shout-out to Jim Jones, I mean, let us ball man

Goddamn, shout-out to my man Killa

Juelz Santana, Hell Rell, 40. Cal

The whole mu'fuckin' set, the whole Harlem, holla

And that's that man, let's keep gettin' it man

You already know the independent money is never funny

Ow, Writer's Block Part 4, top of '07

Let's go in man

My next album, Write Away

It's goin' down man

DukeDaGod, More Than Music, December 26th

Merry Christmas motherfucker