Good Things Die

With all the beauty in my life, hit the mic 'till the lights out
 Bet Barrack play this in the White House when his wife's out
 I got that good shit, purple with them orange veins
 People say that yours taste like a wood chip
 You rookies push shit, million dollar rapper, DiBiase on the mic
 While you all is sloppy like the brothers Bushwack
 Pop had put his cock in momma's bush back
 In '78, the doc saw my face and tried to push back
 Yeah helmets? all ribs broken
 I'm an angel of death that taketh what the lord gives
 What gives? Every written's all fibs
 Ya'll bids phony, fishing in the dolphins
 And mermaids, sayin' Burbank relevant
 It's like using dog bags pickin' up the turd of an elephant
 Sayin' you ain't feelin' it, you full of shit, fell in it
 Wipe off and shut your mic off before I yell in it
 See any day could be your last, quit living in the past kid
 You want drama, take a class, get your phd
 See any moment I could pop out and leave you seein' asterisks
 Cause when it comes to spittin' raps I got my phd
 Now Verbal's said he's having fun
 So I say fuck it let me join in no avoidin' it, appointed let the static run
 These half-a-ton rappers claiming they ready
 I have the sun wrapped around my neck, chain gettin' heavy
 I got the planets aligning with the planning to sign it
 Then have them standing in line to see me ranting and rhyming
 They gassing you up with all those additives lying
 You buying that shit, what kind of fucking planet am I in?
 I'm off that, respect gettin' respect it's nothing left for the rest
 I fucking called it so I'm getting it next
 I got the shit to make it fucking feel something deep and something real
 Surface-level rappers wonder why they don't fucking appeal
 We give them real shit, real shit
 I want to be that rapper that they feel like they could go get a meal with
 Or split a cab with or share a tab with
 My mother call me Chris, I give a fuck about this rap shit