(Fo Chief)
The mental stain, I drain brains through your skully cap,
With' a roundtable of heaters that's havin' none of that,
Cats that'll collapse ya spinach 'til ya money zapped,
We be so thick into rhymes, these boys chubby fat,
By no minimal margin either,
Chest pumpin' it cold
Dippin' a robe, a frozen drink, sippin' it slow,
I am a marksman, artillery kick the cat boom really be sick,
The infamous boss in the clique,
I am the one chosen, woven
Into a secret society, deadly poets that stay frozen,
When I am rappin' they runnin', you rappin' they dozin',
Cause I am clappin' ya focus, you feel like overdosin'
Smashin' these rookie rappers, I'm laughin' how they hold it,
You could get caught up backwards and slapped up in a moment,
Huntin' with heathen's, using fist packs and bottle caps,
Nowadays it seems the hollows make you holler back,
But really, it just depends on who you hollerin' at,
Ever come outta line at me, then it's all a rap
But I know,
Once you heard of me murder a rhyme
The flow is so perverted at times it be burnin' ya eyes
And I'm SICK WIT' IT,
H.I.V., boy you know the pen hit it,
Admit it, Chief'll spit fire, you know he end wit' it,
Yeah, the Chief and 'Trast get you done wit',
Wipin' the floor up with all your corny verses on some fun shit

(Kontrast)
I am the being of believing, preaching proceeding to mean well,
You feelin' what I'm seein' like I'm teachin' you to read Braille,
And on the deeper end of the scale
Me and my homies dwell embracing a holy grail,
Pervasive, but your faces are frail,
And any traces of your fails are braided in veils
Escapin' through a gated tale of faded trails
A dose of my rhymes is nastier than post dated ale
In ya post dated mail, so folks play it well and don't miss it,
I piss on pissed off cats with fists clenched, a sixth sense,
Simplistic misfits get they ribs wrenched affixed whence
A blissful fistful leaves my wrists drenched in fish stench
A dissful missile for you pussies in your filth trench
Spread that wealth like it's funny dude,
Your money's where my mouth is,
You can take my words with you,
Leave you disturbed to get through
A ceiling you can't commit to,
Dreamin' perturbed to fit to
A feeling you can't forget too,
Fo Chief, where the fuck you at?
(I'm right here)
We need to tear all these suckers back
(They might hear)
A dirtier motto than a waddle to a grotto
Where they wallow in their sorrow and their bottles stay hollow,
Where the whores gobble coarse men outside the Apollo
Strike the Lotto when abortion isn't possible to follow,
Might afford County Court from the options that they borrow from this sport
(Stay dirty!)
With no remorse for you cowards