Bravado (fg. VII) - AllttA, 20 SYL, Mr. J. Medeiros

Your false bravado it ain’t nothing to me

I’ll call your bluff and have you duct’d like prod

And stuffed inside a duffle Tumi

Ain’t no scuffle newbie, you gettin' jumped like hoopty’s

Looking up and seeing two me’s (Mi's)

Bitch you see the way I drew (Drew) these

Sounding like a couple groupies

You hanging 'round, don’t fool me

The only banging gonna be the sound of pumpin' Uzi’s

And that’s the only time I beat around

Funny, «Who, me?»

«Like a clown funny?

How funny?

Fuck do you mean!?»

I got a twin for that barrel, ain’t no laughs in them

Fastened to your chin like a pharaoh with your stash missing

Fuck a song please, I’ll get to ass whippin'

These Don’s keys gon' lead to you gaggin' on your last written’s

You claim that you bang, but you don’t have victims

Drew fangs I see through veins and you don’t have venom

You ain’t got heat, you in heat and that’s different

Raps so pussy they could probably have kittens, come on

Anyhow, any who

Anyhow, any who

Ay, yo, big amo, grip handle to hold the shit careful

It gotta kick to throw a hippie out his hemp sandals

And if they fit blamo, you now a lit candle

Ain’t got no license to conceal, yo the shit’s camo

I load the clip with carols before I aim and fire

Posted shoulder width and have it sangin' like a chamber choir

Play the wire, you’ll hear the way that I attack a man

Raps that slap a man front and back of hand, that’s a ten

Insane asylum type of batterin'

Mad hatter’n the way I cap a man, baffle 'em

Quick to hang minds up of the scaffolding

Or paint sky patterns with brains in my battle hymns

Aim high, I bet you never doin' that again

Dap a rapper’s hand

Nah, I rather snatch the limbs and clap them back at him

I’m up in the masters den

Ask’n 'em, tell me who’s your master

When you tryna tame a lion with a rack of lamb

Anyhow, any who

Anyhow, any who

Hypothetical violence tryna settle with pride pent

Hiding inside the cryogenically silent

Fire, I find it when I start firing mind clips

Wild am I check for the higher up my temp

Goes it’ll let go the tyrant that I kept

Less known the stress load until it explodes and I’m spent

See when the writer in I vents

It’s on some eye of the tiger type shit

Ayo, these stripes ain’t lying thought the violent gimmicks

Got me orchestrating rhymes with no violin in it

Check the case, type writer with a firing pin in it

Bringing y’all face to face on some Siamese twin shit

That these joints won’t admire these tenets

Just to free that fire and entire three minutes

To decrease disappointments, put some iron heat in it

If it seems disjointed, get the irony in it

Anyhow, any who

Anyhow, any who