2:23 Ratio

ayo, the autopsy report just came back lyrical homicide

some old washed-up groupie still claiming he got prime time

leader of lost souls, fifty deep but the ship still sinking

yall the some with the weakest thinking

 

old head preaching lyrics but his flow got arthritis

stuck in '95 like his jeans and his fitted

claiming legend status but the resume empty

forty followers deep and still aint mentioning me?

perks of being irrelevant, nobody checking

rap game nursing home where the bars come with bedpans and bed-wetting

family tree must be bare, no fruit on the branches

just a bunch of yes-men nodding like bobbleheads at bad answers

 

call yourself artistic? man, your script look like toddler scribbles

partner in crime? more like partner in whining, sniffing the residuals

yellow belly scared to step in the ring

holding hands with weakness like yall share a last name

buddy rhymes, stuck together like glue and regret

I split atoms while yall split rent in a studio nobody respects

drafting bars? nah, drafting excuses for failure

I etch stone, yall trace stickers, art school dropouts with no patience

 

caution tape around your career, do not resuscitate

hype man to a ghost echo with no weight

marking territory? nah, pissing weak like a dog in heat

I tag skyscrapers, you tag along, lost in the bleachers

Sidekick with no hero, Robin with no batman

I joker the game, why so serious fam

 

mama must be proud, raised a failure with no backbone

daddy issues? nah, daddy left cause the bars was so bland

whole family tree wilted, passed down like bad genes

perks of being forgettable, nobody mourning

I bury careers in real time, wake up, its morning

 

2:23 thats the time on the clock when I strike

two minutes of silence for the career I just sliced

forty deep? forty sheep in a pen with no shepherd

leader lost in the fog, GPS screaming "turn back"

perks of being washed, nobody calls for the encore

I paint masterpieces, yall finger-paint on the floor

 

they say "respect your elders" but your rhymes got dementia

stuck on loop like medicaid cards in a rent-a-center

perks of aging badly your whole squads depends posse

adult diapers full of weak bars and false prophecy

your birth certificate an apology letter from the condom factory

family tree so weak birds build nests out of sympathy

forty deep, forty sheep queuing for slaughter

your "movement" aint a cult, just lost sons and lost daughters

 

yall crayon on dennys placemats

your pen game so weak editors send it back in ziploc bags

some of yall piss-stained cowardice

dickriding so intense you need UberXL for your chorus

your rhymes like your girl, basic, bored, and unsatisfied

my syllables hit deeper than the daddy issues you hide

studio like a methadone clinic for wack addicts

yo trade feature verses for rides to your probation visits

 

your bloodlines a cautionary tale told in group homes

generational weakness baked in your chromosome bones

mama shouldve swallowed, the world didnt need another jester

daddys real gift was disappearing, smartest move he ever measured

your whole lineage weaker than dollar store condoms

a family tree that bears nothing but rotten outcomes

you have lifetime supply of Ls

your existence proof God got bored and made mistakes as well

 

2:23 thats seconds it takes to erase you

two decades too late, three flows to break you

your "crew" like group therapy for the lyrically disabled

a support group for MCs who consistently failed it

I bring hurricanes where yall bring light drizzles

your whole catalog weaker than your auntie's whiskey principles

you make garbage men feel noble

your verses should come with hazard pay and a biohobel

 

last rights administered by the coroners rhyme book

time of death? when you first touched that weak ass mic hook\

your discography like a CVS receipt of Ls

long, pointless, and ultimately embarrassing as hell

flowers, bruh, just piss on the grave of your career

the only thing planting in your future is prison yard fear

your legacy? a urinal cake in raps restroom

soon to be flushed like your mamas third husbands trust fund