Ric Flair

[Neighbor]

This a cutthroat symphony; gun smoke & infamy. Rip your guts open, literally... I keep the pump holstered religiously. Love don't exist to me; a young soldier's blood oath epiphany. My lungs hold slugs that unload limitlessly w/ snubnose trajectory. While you couldn't afford a shot glass, I'm pourin cognac w/ foreign contacts in Beijing. It's mortal combat, my blade swing & your fuckin corpse'll frog splash the HD. When I'm gauge grippin, I break limits... frames split from reality. Clay pigeon ya family. My stage presence like Rain's finisher, transitioned into a game-ending Fatality. The lyrics're God status, this shit lookin like America's Got Talent. Shut down the system like a heroin shot, y'all hear what you want; I'm here to tear up ya HOF ballots. You're terrible, off balance; they're preparin the pall-bearers. This an aerial assault blasting like Barrett w/ arm calibers. Still that Type O negative psycho terrorist. Bioweaponsmith w/ the rhinestone leather grip. Cyclone crescent kick, battle rap not even Zygote's pen could script. Got lines like Pete Carroll spliced w/ Green Arrow in an Ivy League flannel. Cut w/ Bison's genes, on a Sniper Spree; splatter blood. Fightin me's like tryna weave Tiger Knees, standin up into Iron Sheik's Camel Clutch. Or standing w/ Klitschko in the staggering grip of Anderson's clinch hold. Got box control like a classic Nintendo that'll shatter your ribs in a massive crescendo. My swag lives forever, keep the mask & Beretta w/ a flask full'a Devil's Cut. Plus, the strap where the weapon's hung got more rounds than Allen from Metal Slug. The sawed-off I'm grippin launchin intestines on the walls of ya kitchen. Flawless precision. I should be locked in a prison like Auschwitz victims, no Shawshank Redemption. Or double entendres; I'm a fuckin monstrosity. Get off-topic, my thought process gave Jungian philosophy a frontal lobotomy.