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it's over (freestyle) - royce da 5'9'' lyrics

[verse one]
they say i’m the best in here
picture your wife f-ckin your twin, i’m like him
may the best man win, so later for you bums
a ways back i made a pact to stay sharp enough to sharpen a razor on my tongue
i’m sick with this, you sick like a panty sniffer
and you just wanna see her pee, like a d-ck blister
y’all remind me of fantasia brother, y’all be whylin
on tv every day i turn on y’all and y’all be cryin
i’m surgical with this motherf-ckin pen
the sickest n-gga spittin ’til the end {-echoes-}

[verse two]
i don’t really have to go against actors
i’m the last lyrical w.t.f.o.m.g. factor
so back off ‘fore i blow your kneecap off
i’mma eat this beat like a beet eatin vegan, industry’s where the beef is
in the car goin beep-beep while i roll over the drums and just straight peel through the pieces
’bout to build me a time machine and, get in it, and go back i’m done
find frank nitti and al capone like, “can y’all autograph my gun?”
haha, i ain’t tryin that hard right now, i’m just havin fun
tell the whole world i just had a son, first name earth, last name none
you live on that and your cash ain’t come and you don’t spit that sh-t -ss ain’t gone
raised by a gangsta, come in the house with your -ss whipped and you get an -ss whoop-un
what a n-gga know about the water in the shower gettin cold cause the bathroom faucet is on
the reason why i grabbed you, stabbed you, out-rap you when i ain’t feelin like talkin’ with chrome
heat a n-gga house with the oven, like i like thuggin, what i probably just spit on my mother
had to heat up the house with the oven, had to spend the night with my cousin
guess i’ll be poppin lots of sh-t, you can’t do nothin ’bout it b-tch
so get the heads up or be my rock’em sock’em opposite
i’m like a stock or bond, that could drop a bomb
ridin slow with the slidin do’ on the side
open on that minivan intended for no soccer mom
lighters up high, i’m your fire supply
writer with mad sk!lls, i’m ill so hire your guy
n0body’s harder, he don’t give a f-ck what he slaughters
he will drag your sl-tty daughter through the muddy waters
this beat is bait, get it out of me
i can sh-t it out me it’s ate, i think i owe drake an apology

[outro]
tweet about that you little f-ckin fruit

- royce da 59 lyrics

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