The Hurt - Mr Len & Jean Grae feat. Murs, Jean Grae, Mr Len

Bank on the best

Who drop it like an Acme anvil

And freeze your chest to leave you breathing ill

How about Jean and a fifth of Nyquil in ya

Grilling my perimeter

Niggas exposed, see who pulls and falls, I ain’t feeling ya

Told y’all, I’m proof two-oh-oh

Hotter than the diaphragms of twenty bitches backstage with chlamydia

Snot-nosed punks, I’m that deranged chick

No Range, no whip -- same for all the niggas I hang with

I’m a pen-holding, gold-rocking, 40-swigging nigga

Figure me out, maneuver me, sue me for getting into ya

Sting like another word for the cops

Zen master, classes held on the wax

Your homework is playback

Pro-black and anti-bitch, anti-snitch

Mic cords is whips, trains is fours, fives, and sixes

And no Benz and fuck friends, I’ll be the last chick standing

Wait, nah, fuck that -- bring at least one man in

Say what, nigga?

Speak up, I can’t hear you

Look me in my eyes if you feel that I should see you

Still drunk from last night

Buzzing off my last fight

What if I turned around and quickly whipped your ass?

I’d be right

Jean, bench-press strength is a million and five strong

No henchmen, yes-niggas to survive on

Investment figures is little to ride on

No nine-to-five, a nine to get live on

Live onstage like a Shante Roxanne

With men and some rock band

Mosh pits, cocks in hands

I’m a mic addict, type dramatical life

High gramatical status

Non-compatible, non grata

No Prada, no baby father

Out of place like Road Rules insider

Won’t spill bottles of vodka

I’m prejudiced, bastard

Rule, kill you with tender service

Eat the food and pass gas in your closed casket

I’ll get my ass kicked and talk shit while it’s happening

Heard shots, run to the side that niggas clapped in

I been punk, been drunk, been drugged but fuck it

Now I fight back

You could pull the vinyl from your backpack

(Oh right, that’s your gat; oh right, I forgot)

My type is wrong, weight is thick

Height depends if I’ve been stumbling all night long

Write for songs like I’m hyped to hold the mic for throngs

Gather round, rip down stages

Just to prove points

Made minimum wages for joints

And still blaze your boys

Stay poised when I’m flipping on your toy bullshit

No chips, just shit in your face

Hate your moms, take your arms

Make you watch all the rape scenes from Oz

Round of applause when you bound to fall and get tossed

Your high-floss, high gloss and mega high beams

Strange it seems, your daylight still ain’t seeing me

New York representative, I told you before

And the only way I like it is raw, no pause