Stop Hitting Yourself - Soul Khan

Soul Khan

Illingsworth on the beat

And the raps with Virtue and Dom O Briggs

On everything

This motherfucker bangs

Let’s get this one pregnant

Fresh out of carbonite stasis

Dangerous, so entirely flames

The inside of my veins

Have got caramelized platelets

Now all of my haters join the party like Magus

The bona fide greatest

Came with some humble advice

Seen a lot of White Rangers

Changing your colors and stripes

For the sake of a couple of likes

'Cause you wanna die famous

You’re still lukewarm as a review for a food court

The hoops that you’re jumping through for success

Are making me facepalm

I’m basically napalm

What I do’s more essential than room, board, and sex

So Hugh-Laurie-esque, your mother’s sending nudes

At school board events, I’m such a clever dude

Like Duncan Penderhughes in huge Warby specs

I’m cold, you just Cole trying to hustle rent-em-spoons

Look at me mixing these metaphors and similes up

And I don’t give an amphibious fuck

Circling for crumbs, man that shit is for ducks

You couldn’t test me if I pissed in a cup

Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?

Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop

Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?

Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop

Now I’m Sherlock Holmes slash Yung Lean out of Stockholm

And mixed with a black part

Mixed with a Marvel vs. Capcom team of Cable, Sentinel, Blackheart

While you button mash I’m clowning soon as the match start

You speedwalking, I’m cartwheeling

You sketching amateur caricatures

I’m art dealing in suits made of the rarest most expensive starched linens

My guard listens so much

I wouldn’t even

You still in charred denims

It’s faux pricey rap, promethazine, Dimetapp

Instagram, tiny cats,, tiny hats

Achieving more than superhumans can with brutish hands

Standing out like fully-suited man on

Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?

Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop

Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?

Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop

Ready to spark on these tracks

Kinda have that effect

I’m kinda pompous on my balls

Homie now give me respect

I’m super chill though, don’t ask me why my eyes low

That means he got’em

See, when I rap, I train apostles

They say eating pussy makes your beard grow

But I’ve been eating cats for years with my lo mein and my street flow

Heh, and I still ain’t got a beard yet

I’ve always been the youngest child rebel, soldier, a little threat

How’d your beats your rhymes, fuck your crew

If you moves on up on my homies they be

You can’t spar with the Brooklyn god

My arms are ordained with scriptures, I’m mistletoe-fisted

Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?

Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop

Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?

Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop

Who the F is F Virtue?

No one, 'cause no one’s perfect

Went from the cervix to the surface to Earth

Prematurely stirring genetics and scopes

Getting a leg up before legs could balance on ropes

A mongoloid thinking the bong’s a toy

Making retarded raps, how much fam have my songs employed?

Diddy’s kids Sean John

And anyone who started from the bottom’s long gone

I wouldn’t diss dudes on my own tracks like K-Dog

I only work with MCs I love, and I hate lots

So guest features are with those I’d have as dinner guests

Now let’s get jealous and mad at what the winner gets