Curb Kid Uncertainty

Dissing us means dissing yourself «Fuck Wit Dre Day» style
The way you switched made my jit spit like…
Pretty bad lyrics, hear the shows are lit
Don’t give up dude but you should really quit
Don’t fit in here, don’t fit in there
Is he trying too hard or really doesn’t care?
Self awareness, now that’s a trope
The hope is the trap
Dude, what is it? Do you sing or you rap?
Do you rock or you roll?
Are you emo or punk? I don’t fucking know
Too many questions (Not enough answers)
(You dipped from the stage before the crowd ven threw their hands up)
Hahaha now isn’t that funny?
«Mad a lot of music but I ain’t made a lotta money!»
I don’t know what I’m doing
I don’t know where I’m going
I don’t know how I’m feeling
I don’t know where I’m going
Tell me to leave, tell me to go
Tell me to leave, tell me to go
How do I kill 'em? Bout six shots I figure
One bullet each, six niggas on the trigger
I’ll fire two, one miss, hit his missus
Got a two-for-one in the funeral business
Watch as they lower one child without a parent
Tell them blame Jakob for the orphan heir apparent
Tell them blame Joseph, blame Mary, blame the god
Better blame Father 'fore this violent slipshod
He was feeling slick, he thought he caught me slippin
But the nigga missed so his time on Earth was fleetin
If I had a way I woulda slit him by the throat
But me and my niggas had a message to promote
So all of you hatin-ass pretentious niggas
The scene won’t save you when the ghosts haunt your figure
I’ll watch you as you fuck and I’ll watch you while you sleep
And I’ll watch you as they bury you six feet deep
Bitch
I don’t know what I’m doing
I don’t know where I’m going
I don’t know how I’m feeling
I don’t know where I’m going
Tell me to leave, tell me to go
Tell me to leave, tell me to go
I will!
If it sounds like beef, it’ll get hacked
I don’t fuck with your crew if you let abusers in the back
And I don’t fuck with two-bit rappers who claim to be in the know Then turn
around and snake these younger emcees for the dough
On some Birdman steez, you a washed up cretin
Tryna leech off the newbies getting groupies off their presence Meanwhile they
abusing all the homies on some sick shit
Might hit him like Debo with the brick until his shit split
Just a little wrist flick, the curb kids finna back me
Ain’t no scurred prick gon' attack me
Boy you’re worthless and you rap weak
My worst diss is these cats' peaks
I spurt ink on these rap sheets
Diss is fire
If your fit’s designer I’ll make you Richard Pryor
Go get your fliers liar
Bitch
Fuck outta here
Watch out for the screening, nigga
All niggas bleed red
Sweet synergy, motherfucker!