Lyrics: Tha God Fahim/Nicholas Craven/Fihim Martin
Music: Nicholas Craven/Fihim Martin
Loaded guns on my armrest, that's where the bombs rest.
Make you die a napalm death (Kaboom).
I get benefits and dissenters for my workflow.
I got no use to get involved if the purse low.
Study the laws of the land, there's much to be known.
This food for the dome, I got hands of stone like Roberto (Durán).
I'm no brakes and all turbo,this shit ain't for commercial.
Dungeons of rap shit, give you more steel than blacksmiths.
My expertise in weaponries I turn to equities.
I get my revenge in victory.
Spin you like rotisserie, my engine's made for high performance.
Me fallin' short is a rare occurrence (Yeah).
I'm paid well for my service.I'm just fulfillin' my purpose.
I'll make a purchase investments for all my urges.
This a resurgence, I arose from deep under submergence.
I can't keep up with the circus 'cause it's worthless.
For what it's worth, I'm into rings and belts.
Long as it lead to wealth, I do for self, I move in stealth.
I'ma get money if nothin' else, I don't do nothin' else.
You don't like it? Go **** yourself.
Craven pulled this outta the stash for me to bash.
In the gladiator's arena, they wouldn't last.
I'm like a national treasure, light as a feather.
You'll get decapitated from the Excalibur bearer.
I'll make your death the end of an era,it's terror.
Sometimes I get scared of myself when lookin' in the mirror.
It's Dump Gawd, take a picture, write it down.
Thinkin' you gon' come up off me?
Nah, you goin' down.
Mics, I throw around.
Put in more work than whole towns.
During training, going thirty-six rounds
I firebend styles, they want me banned from rap and exiled.
But I'm just watchin' the checks pile.
There's plenty mics I smoked in X-Files.
Check my resumé, it checks out!