Boing

People say
«Grimm, you’ve been shot like 50
So why don’t you just rhyme like 50?
Then you could get the money like 50
Otherwise, before you see success, you’ll be 50
There’s no money in the underground, it’s iffy
No loyalty either, man, fans are real picky»
I ignore what they say, give the world my heart and soul
My inner strength can’t be measured by no BDS
The length of the race not forty yards but marathon
I’ll laugh at the sprinters ‘cause they dashed, now they’re breathing hard
Mentally break it down off-pace ‘til all wheezing
Now competition also eat dust because I leave ‘em
To a science, my cranium mimics
Vibrations of plutonium and uranium combinations
Then I adlib all the radiation
Push the red button, distribute it to the nation
You could
Spit a lot of shit but ain’t hotter than this
You could get a lot of kids but ain’t stopping the clique
You could spit a lot of clips but they all gon' miss, and you
Could get a lot of chips, but we’re robbing your shit
Ayyo, watch me
Bounce on a track, honeys bounce in the back
Bouncing they ass. Funny how you doubting my raps, dummy
‘Til it’s amounting a mountain of cash money
Counting my stacks, son, and stuff ‘em in the couch for
The stash ‘til it got a lot of G’s and I’m caught up in
The cheese like a mouse in a trap. Fuck it
I don’t care who you down with and that
Come around where they at, I’ll lay ‘em down on their back, fucker
I don’t care about the pounds of your crack
Or the rounds in your gat. You laid it down on your track? So what?
I ain’t scared how you sound when you rap
And you talking mad shit like mouth is your ass. Hold up
I ain’t down with them cats. Move around, can’t
Be found or tracked down, a mouth and a flash. Know what?
I’ll be out like The Flash if the cops roll up
Get your spot blown up, and I’ll pounce on
The cats
You could
Spit a lot of shit but ain’t hotter than this
You could get a lot of kids but ain’t stopping the clique
You could spit a lot of clips but they all gon' miss, and you
Could get a lot of chips, but we’re robbing your shit
Uh huh. Yeah, yo, I don’t worry
‘Bout nothing. I’ll leave with a guard. It’s PMD
And the Hit Squad with the universal entourage. I’ll lift them
Little weights like it’s nothing long as my blood’s pumping
I don’t worry about the bullshit ‘cause it don’t mean nothing
Love is love, so I push to be better
I’m too clever, PMD shine in any weather. It’s
The no-look from Bibby, but y’all call him Grimm
Keep on a hoodie and Timbs, maintaining them ends. Me?
I’ll never sell out or sell my soul
He’s a b-boy for real, so put that talk on hold
Strictly Business, always rep my mic hard
You’ll put your money on the god, but I put my money on God’s swings
You could
Spit a lot of shit but ain’t hotter than this
You could get a lot of kids but ain’t stopping the clique
You could spit a lot of clips but they all gon' miss, and you
Could get a lot of chips, but we’re robbing your shit