Lost Dime

rhythmic arithmetic, speaking of the flow i spit

My dopest hits are old as shit, why has no one noticed it

Give me the mic back, i write to tight tracks

i might be quite rash, but fuck it i fight last

I'm talking to myself mostly, but if you roll me/

then just know that I can make a body look like an OD

Picture perfect melodies are selling me the jealousy

you fellas see on LSD, booking like a felony

I've come to break spines, lay mines..spray nines

picking you like grapes off a grapevine that makes great wine

...so don't ever fucking test me

I'll squeeze your testes like they're wine test pressing

Why mess with me? I'm sitting back and smirking/

cuz you're jerking off and working soft, like calories you're burning off

Probably I'll sit back and scribble raps to little tracks

never gonna whittle at the middle of the pit of rap

This game is not a game, it's a chasm, it's a trench

You're battling the rest and you're always gonna bench

The sidelines are larger than the in-game field

the amount of people quitting is an insane yield.

The crops are always growing but the seeds are rarely sowing/

So i'm going to be flowing, without ever really knowing

if my passion is attractive, or if I need to ax it.

my talent is in question, i'm never gonna ask it.

I'd rather be a small-time, cross-lines raw kind

of false-eyed off-minded dime that got tossed behind.