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Unarmed, I'm sharper than a knife, death stare in my eyes - no child, no wife. The war drum in my heart is my guiding light. I know when to retreat, but there's no flight, ready to surge and down to fight. I live my life like I've already died; Mars raised me right, a beast groomed for the arena where my trade is plied, fed strain and strife. My heart is hollow and the pain is ripe, broken and rebuilt - immune to blight. I severed my ties... to my body's hunger, and my mind's desire for a pleasant sight. The Grey is where I ride. I rebuke the black and the white, and blur the lines. Chaotic Good let's me do what I would through the prowess of mind and might. The Game's my spouse, 'cause the sickest bitch is My Life...
I'mma tell ya' like this, I don't give two shits about ya' penny-annie-ass politics, galactic ego, and little dick... syndrome, yeah, you make me sick. You Napoleonic tick, you's a sour-ass bitch. I stunt on you parasitic little pricks... habitually, just to get my kicks. Why the fuck you think I ride, like this? I'm polished priceless, like I was picked by an African kid. So, kick rocks, or get clipped. The Eagle don't need to land when he flies this legit. The rule books get ripped - I hedged against the risk. I don't talk trash, I just react quick. Brass knucks equal death kiss; these soft-ass chumps equal breakfast. Respected tactics equal bastards backless and breathless. I don't need to snatch a chain, but I'll sever a necklace. Witness the ruckus and get tucked by an Irish kid. I rock knock out skills, and I pack a magic dick. I'm tractor beam attractive; I'll look at your chick and lick my lips, smoother than a magic trick. That's why I don't back down, tha's why my swag is so sick.
