[Apocalipps]
Yo, what's the deal with the unsigned hype?
They must got crack in they pipe
They got these rappers that's unsigned hype
Most of em soft, not even worth the slug
I fuckin stab 'em with my pen
And write a rhyme with they blood what
You ain't a thug, so why you rappin like that
You ain't never bust a gun so why you actin like that
You a copy cat, wit ya sloppy raps
All that fake sport beef take that (chappy?) back
And you can bang this in your M3 and keep boppin ya head
Apocalipps, the definition of a MC
Stomachs (all?) (empty?)
So if a producer front on my beat
Imma whip his ass out with the MP
The mic possessed me at a young age
I was a shallow bastard, but it got me on stage
It told me: stay sharp, stay creative
And if it speak of a battle that you was in
They better tell me you ate 'em
And i said i promise until my days is done
If you ever diss me i hope you catch AIDS on your tongue
Yeah!

*break*

[Apocalipps]
Yo, this is 40 cal rap music, get slapped music
My vocal booth got C4 attached to it
I came a long way from hoppin the trains
Like (divorced and ceased?) rappers on a ferry for change
The game changed, now it's not about your skills
As long as the beat is bangin sumthin that the club could feel
But the industry don't make me (par?), apocalipps is a star
Fuck around and straight supplex your A&R
And i don't care what your (funds?) be like
Cause i can cop a couple of grams and my (ones?) stay tight
Matter of fact you ain't rich, bitch, you's a rich bitch
Take you to the precinct, you probably do a great pig
I do mixtapes, mad shows and rip shit
But it's sad, cause i'm known more for my big (dick?)
New York for life, the bastards is thorough
With connections like cable through the whole filet's gove borroughs
Let's go!

[Outro: Apocalipps]
Yeah, it's my life
Aha, i dare you
Anybody test my mic
Imma destroy you
And everybody that fuckin run with you
Pop your head off, records
Common, yeah, common