pass the stick/ like im master splinter/ pack of rizzlas for my boom bap spitters/ whos back to lyrically smack the whimps/ the bass line is making em crash the whip/ Face to face with the creator I have been waiting for 3 hours Worse than the Italian post office I've found someone worse But then they let me pass and finally I can talk to the dog Oops And throws me down to hell It is the season of winter The place is not keeping up with the modern But it's cold you can be sure At least down here I don't hear you But after a while I regret it only see naked and deaf sluts And then I'm going to talk to Charon I bribe him with half a wad 1 also offer him a cigarette He tells me to hurry If they see you, you are dead But I feel there is stammering But I hide and I am risen And he finished his cigarette And in the end I tell him beautiful Quadra stuff is so timed that I could do it a cappella pass the stick/ like im master splinter/ pack of rizzlas for my boom bap spitters/ whos back to lyrically smack the whimps/ the bass line is making em crash the whip/ open doors, close accounts I'm not doing it for money They challenge me and after death Those loose smiles of theirs You tell me I can't rap over beats so watch and learn That every time I close a new rhyme I have already bought a new coffin With some rhyme I have already amazed you And this flow has buried you They are not like you are failed trappers I don't wear license plates and I don't snort Kili have not sponsored myself in a thousand sites The stuff I do speaks for me This stuff is chill but smashing at the same time kind of like tea mixed with coffee You did not expect all this vou took me for a fool While you were smoking your joints in the toilet was writing another text 1 looked inside myself And I stopped being depressed 1 accepted myself I forgave myself for what did to myself Rapping was fundamental To get out of the circle of hell I see a house starting to burn But I'm not disappointed I was inside that house I iust wanted to talk to god Face to face with the creator I have been waiting for 3 hours Worse than the Italian post office I've found someone worse But then they let me pass and finally I can talk to the dog Oops And throws me down to hell It is the season of winter The place is not keeping up with the modern pass the stick/ like im master splinter/ pack of rizzlas for my boom bap spitters/ whos back to lyrically smack the whimps/ the bass line is making em crash the whip/ I'm bout to go Mad, Like crack in the 80's, Its hades, attacking this beat, And ravaging daily, Step to me, get smacked, Like the a$$ of a lady, Shady ain't got nothing on this rap l'm containing lam going mad, Everyone's tryna take a jab, So I was left to hit the dash and grab souls to fill my ink stains with potential to grow, A demented saint, knowing the more he plays the more he changes in ways the normal eyes can't perceive, so let this gift uplift or bring me down lower then the depths if its a curse, for better or for worse, I am the ghost driving this Hearse