Royce The 5'9"

Detroit, yeah.
Royce 5−9, Tony TOUCH!
The year is two-thousand
Mr. Quick-to-Slap-and-Punch
Uhh uhh uhh uhh. what?
Yo yo
I’m entirely too hard to listen to talk
I get raw and get this clip and draw, send you to Mars
Niggas with hidden hearts get written off
Find yaself bruh
You barely know what your click is called, cowboy
You wish you could spar with half of a mind
Kill you with half of a line
Without a need to continue the bar
It’s a infamous art, not many can spit from the heart
Turnin pens into darts
It’s what you call meant for the charts
So rather I’m sayin, «Fuck you,» and flippin you off
Man these infinite thoughts in the bank, so enter the vault
My visions assault your sister for description are lost
Every time a nigga piss me off, stick on the wall
So even when the nigga not lookin he listen and pause
Forget it dog, when I spit at y’all, you shit in your drawers
I’m comin at you from e’ry angle
And the shit can be very painful
So how you luh that? Scared ain’t you.