Still Trippin'

My rhymes are like laundry
They keep on comin’
You better cherish it fondly
How I have your skull humming
I keep the mic on me - Like a sidearm
And cause more red to spill
than a whole wine farm
I’m the cause and the source
what you spit is as false as its forced
I’m winning, you lost like a tourist,
Put you on cold storage in the chorus
I’ve seen the laws of the jungle up close
Still I cut through the bush and stomp toes
I’ve walked through hell’s fire and lived to tell
Burned my bridges and wished you well
I put hands on phantom fighters
And dance with the devil that resides inside us
As a matter of fact
I spit like a crazed maniac
At the scaffold, before my head is severed from my neck
I’m Prince Myshkin, a little bit like a big idiot
Who stared death in the eyes, but left before his wig split
A pure soul but mixed with
a whole lotta dark and twisted sick shit
I'm behind these bars
In a cage with my karma
Waiting to harm ya' (x3)