| You’re lookin' at the rookie rapper | 
| With a years biggest itcha rows | 
| Yeah this nigga switch his flows | 
| Yeah I dig and switch his hoes | 
| Hear them niggas snitch to po’s | 
| Where a nigga pitch his blow | 
| And how my hustle gross is near that nigga Richard Po’s | 
| I share my figures with the hoes | 
| I’m where the digger stitch his clothes | 
| It’s ghetto F.A.B.O.L.O.U.S | 
| I got street legend, fame | 
| I’m the kid known to put the Colt to a bredren’s frame | 
| Like he’s Edgerrin James | 
| Y’all stash guns I carry 'em on my waist | 
| Ya part time piece | 
| Aquarium interface | 
| The hood rat Hugh Heff, loungin' on ya in the Rolls | 
| The project Playmates, around the corner centerfolds | 
| I’m constant hated | 
| Listen to the nonsense stated | 
| But niggas can’t shit on me like they constipated | 
| I briefly conversated | 
| These doors sittin' on ten times two | 
| Mami what’s so complicated? | 
| Ya heard? | 
| Blao! | 
| Explosion, game on lock | 
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop | 
| It’s like blao! | 
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely | 
| So duck deez motherfucker | 
| Blao! | 
| Said it before, ready for war | 
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump | 
| Blao! | 
| Slap my gat, I ain’t hear to talk | 
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk | 
| It’s like Karl, Pac and Biggie is the greatest to rhyme | 
| Problem is, this list only exists in my mind | 
| So instead | 
| I listen to your style and keep laughin' | 
| You beatin' me rappin', that’s like Jim Abbott clappin' | 
| That’ll never happen, I’m sicker of course | 
| Then droppin' a dime | 
| Like Shawn Kemp’s child support | 
| Look at all you kids, underground and straight shook | 
| You ain’t gettin' signed like nerdy kids yearbooks | 
| I’m gettin' second looks but the industry is shitty | 
| Cause I’d rather die than ever sound like Chingy | 
| Right Thurr | 
| Come on dawg | 
| You ain’t gettin' robbed | 
| Cause it’s uneven, like Dru Hill on a seesaw | 
| Yo, you don’t want any bad blood in-between us | 
| Like we’re standing right next to Magic Johnson’s intravenous | 
| It’s Hot Karl and Celph so if you wanted a hit | 
| You can peep the famous guys and fast forward our shit | 
| Blao! | 
| Explosion, game on lock | 
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop | 
| It’s like blao! | 
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely | 
| So duck deez motherfucker | 
| Blao! | 
| Said it before, ready for war | 
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump | 
| Blao! | 
| Slam my gat, I ain’t hear to talk | 
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk | 
| They say cause I don’t believe in Christ that I’m misled | 
| Been shot at twice but never hit I just miss lead | 
| Get it right, the name’s Celph Titled | 
| Straight out of motherfuckin' Tampa | 
| Leavin' enough gun smoke to give you lung cancer | 
| Plans for your album? | 
| It’s best if you lose those | 
| Shoot up your M.P.C. | 
| and you gonna find a few loop holes | 
| We sellin' bullet wounds, havin' a wholesale | 
| Leavin' complex patterns all in your head so you know braille | 
| And so frail rappers, y’all ain’t Dance With Wolves | 
| Just swimmin' with sharks, when the hammer get’s pulled | 
| Any witnesses? | 
| Who’s tellin'? | 
| Nobody | 
| The perfect crime, no autopsy, and no body | 
| Without a neck you can’t rock that chain | 
| No way for air to get to your brain | 
| Another murder for this Cuban to claim | 
| An inconsiderate asshole pissin' on you | 
| What else you expect? | 
| That’s what a dickhead do | 
| Blao! | 
| Explosion, game on lock | 
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop | 
| It’s like blao! | 
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely | 
| So duck deez motherfucker | 
| Blao! | 
| Said it before, ready for war | 
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump | 
| Blao! | 
| Slam my gat, I ain’t hear to talk | 
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk | 
| Yo Doc, pee on your floor | 
| I’mma be on the whore | 
| Till she knocked out, then I take a G out her drawer | 
| I’m a thief, on the streets you might be in the morgue | 
| Doin' a chicken of course, I take a key out a Porsche-ah | 
| Box 'em in claustrophobic | 
| I’m a pro y’all, know this | 
| When sensing y’all controllers | 
| Grown men is talkin' | 
| This the fast lane, move over to the margin | 
| It’s over when I walk in | 
| «Doctor» on my license plate | 
| The front of my truck resembles Mike Tyson face | 
| When I pull up to the club, the buildin' shake | 
| Hoes start runnin' out | 
| Niggas start runnin' mouth | 
| I’mma bolt the door and security the area | 
| Got! | 
| We molt floors to secure the Dillinger | 
| Yo Doc! | 
| You want war, I’ll be sure to bury ya | 
| The more the merrier, but your | 
| Blao! |