[Canibus]   Yo, the shotee rip, perforate the skin on top of your ribs //   Red stuff comes out of squibs like a Hollywood script //   Bitch niggas on the floor screaming for mommy and shit //   Cardiologists hook up the heart monitors quick //   Thermometer temperature dips below seventy-six //   That’s what you get for telling niggas that you’re better than ‘Bis //   Not possible, if I can’t rhyme it, it ain’t rhymable //   The audible probability probably ain’t probable //   Supreme rap, G rap underground without a roof //   Chopper proof, holding hip-hop for hostage about to shoot //   Helicopters stabilize at low altitudes //   I’m talking to the negotiator laying out the rules //   In a tight compromising loop //   Road blocked with troops //   Under orders not to shoot but they break your vertebra with boots //   Ten O’clock news flash, ‘Bis and G Rap //   All points bulletin looking for them niggas in black //   Leaned back in an Avocado El-Dorado //   Passing the bottle, speaking Japanese like, ‘No me mah show’ //   She’s got a banging body //   Cold sushi with warm saki //   And if I’m rapping sloppy G’s got me //      [Canibus]   Yo //   Everything is everything my nigga //   I ain’t bitter but if I give you the finger it’ll be behind a trigger //   Faggot ass nigga living in a gated community //   Up at radio telling them what you’re going to do to me //   I live in the ‘burbs //   Clean my Winchester every other weekend with the same dirty Hanes shirt //   It takes two to tango, three to jump rope //   Four to bury the body plus look out for poe’ //   Yo, I guard everything within the limits of my post //   My orders are to smoke you if you get too close //   The whole world is scared of my flow //   Spirit world, scared of my soul //   Nowadays it’s like I’m scared to be known //   The methods of my motivation is completely subjective //   My perception is completely parallel to perspective //   Rhyming is the reason I spit in faces //   Habituation of my flamboyance without rational reservation //   Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee, Zulu, unusual //   Wordologically my syllable position is beautiful //   Only respect niggas if the feeling is mutual //   G Rap snatched the jewels from you, I’ll throw them in the crucible //   Probably throw you in it too, mix it up and make nigga stew //   If you can’t admit that I’m iller than you //   Baby, you’re sparring with the shadows, ‘Bis and G Rap flow //   Mother fucker you’re ‘fessionalling with the Pros //