You have now reached the final destination.
The flying boy.
Planet Asia.
Yeah, yeah.
What?
It's the Richmond City Slicker.
Fly baby boy.
And I say...
Final destination.
Final destination.
Go with the growth disorder,
lyrically boxing with blows,
this toxic hot.
What you think?
Commencing to bump in your block,
ain't got you looking like the sphinx.
You can't think.
Ding dong, it's the Cerebell Ringer.
Your cerebrium shaking from my verbal fault.
Tremors got an X-mass of rhymes.
Santa, won't you quick, don't test.
You'll get left with stress pumping bullshit like...
Militant mental,
unorthodox,
old professional,
assassiness,
ill *.
Spilling like oil,
top soil,
pops and rocks royally.
Running with hotshot kids, come at me wrong.
I slap the boogers out your snot.
Spots not immediately,
from Rushwood back to back.
Classical *, non-electron, body bombing *.
Accurate,
my eye blinds,
sorry to make the people reply.
My insights are satellite, more sky than DCI.
For five nights, alright, for five nights.
Five fights rough, enough to die right.
And crowds on live nights,
and now you're snuffed,
you can't breathe.
Until I'm back on stage again.
It's planet Asia again,
subtract the hate,
I'm in.
Come up with black men who can play as a penguin.
Final destination, a new frontier.
Final destination, one night here.
Final destination, a new frontier.
Final destination, crew, runnin'.
I used to do it for fun,
now it's a job,
niggas robbing still.
But all I wanted was a deal,
to make me feel better.
Stack some real cheddar,
take care of my moms and not her hair.
Couple times,
whatever be the format,
we still bring it to your doormat.
Blowing your doors and wood floors to marble grain.
Won't be the same,
brothers giving me a migraine.
Like six bottles of Noptrain,
these whack niggas.
Rhymin' over these overly-used track niggas.
Sometimes I just wanna smack niggas for doing dumb *.
Instead he's screaming where they from *.
And who the * they bust guns with,
I couldn't care less.
I got too much stress to unload.
I need money in the billfold to take care of my seed.
And I don't even smoke weed to write rhymes.
I still can drop dimes, but all the funniness
can leave them seeds flat,
broke,
and straight moneyless.
Man, we running this.
I know you know that we ain't playing no games,
but your mind frame can leave you in the line of the octane.
Fumigate the whole state for gerbs.
You need to pull out the pad,
you got something to learn.
Something to burn, give me a turn.
Let me earn my spot at the top of the list.
Listen to this, it's been said.
These MCs is out of their head.
And yo,
trusting these fools is like trusting the feds.
So instead of acting like you running this *,
look to your side and see exactly who you running it with,
clown.
Final destination, new frontier.
Final destination, you don't want nothing here.
Final destination, new frontier.
Final destination, keep running it fair, Rascal.