The Writer - KIllarmy, 9th Prince

Word up, some laid back, type Killa raps

Yo…

I’m a writer, rhyme ignitor

Lyrical sniper, shoot up your rhymin' cypher

Mushrooms get me hyper, face the piper

Rich niggas do a drive-by in a Dodge Viper

Aiyo, I move like the Bionic Man, built like The Incredible Hulk

The streets listen when I talk

You just a devil in disguise, with a mic as a pitchfork

Come against the lyrical lord, we can take it to the guns and swing swords

So look deep into the eyes of a killa, Gaten Island, cap pealers

Raps is realer than silver back gorillas

We thugs from a great complex, lyrical Nat Turner

Staten Island money earners, 9th Prince with the burner

Whether inspector’s, wanna search my bulletproof Lex Coupe

Desert Eagle stashed in my fireman’s boots

Runnin' with four hundred Brooklyn troops

Dressed in all suits like the Nation of Islam

Shoot somethin' in your veins and watch you die calm

Like a dope addict, my automatic’ll lift your back like Craftmatic

Like a cellphone with no signal, givin' niggas static

Don’t get caught up in the hot jam, shit is a scam

Predictable like the Wu not invited to Summer Jam

I’m sick of niggas trynna sell me a dream with weak schemes

Killarm', the 18, rap guns is like M-16's, everybody flee the scene

No matter the producer, I still get looser than Medusa

Neptunes or Dr. Dre, my lyrics, the beat’s executioner

Inspired by The RZA, I’m calm like James Bond, city slum scramblers

I was raised in the ghetto slammer

9th Prince is like Max Payne and Jack’s Hammer

I’m known to be the flow’er, but now call me Thor, let it flow like Noah

Shoot you in your shoulder leave you with a handicap composure

Madman exposure, got niggas movin' like doljias

And it’s over, it’s over, it’s over, straight over

You know what the poet said:

«Through the travail of ages, midst the pomp and toils of war

Have I fought and strove and perished countless times upon a star.»

The age-old strife I see?

Do you know who the poet was?

Me