Ride Down 887'

buckle up bitch, this aint no joyride

887 on the dash when the lyrics collide

two targets locked: one loud, one quiet

one dead on arrival, one died tryna try it

 

slinger? more like swing-and-a-misser

your whole career just a glorified snitch script

talk that in your raps but we know where you sleep

pull up silent, leave loud, thats the ghost technique

 

No one got 100 bodies, If you do? where? In call of duty?

your 'killer' flow got less bite than baby toothies

I split your wig, now your brain in two parts

left half still rapping, right half still retarded

 

now lets talk artists, oh wait, tracing aint art

your whole style borrowed like a library card

fake-deep pen game but the inks just piss

writing 'lyrical' with a kindergarten twist

 

they say practice makes perfect, you proof it dont

decades of tryna rap and you still aint close

your name never said cause it never mattered

just a human footnote, heres your bloody chapter

 

this 887, homicide route

two dumb niggas thought they could figure me out

one caught a headshot, one died of shame

both in the dirt, whos next on the chain?

 

I dont do beef, I do extermination

your favorite rapper just rodent elimination

step to me? better bring a coffin fit

last nigga who tried? we still scraping his shit off my kicks

 

tires squeal, case closed, no witnesses left

just two more names added to my death checklist

887? thats the kill count

next hater speak up? make it 888 now