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letra de hive (remix) - trippy tyler

[verse 1: avc]
uh
the sh-t i’m spittin’ is spreading quicker that reddit
supervillian detective with superst-tion embedded
who is the f-ckin’ gem in a used buick and shreddin’ on 377 with 3 .357’s
straight stellar like, lock you in a cellar tight, flowin’ like the mother f-ckin’ engine on a severed bike
omnific, stuck with a bar hittin’ a flow that’s bizzare n-gga, a poet who starts spittin’ like
back to the sh-t that was my signature before
back to the spittin’ that was gettin’ me support
i am feeling no remorse, with a spittin’ so endorsed, in this f-ckin’ game, i made my b-tch my writtens were the wh0r-
bold ploy, i’m toying with old soy, and throwin’ a dinosaur at a 4 year old bored boy
i’m back b-tch, k!ll tracks, no adlibs, acid tablets for buddha stoops when thay rappin
f-ggots, this is not your p-ssage, get back in action, before you get that -ss kicked, b-tch

[verse 2: trippy tyler]
’94 born so this hip hop is in me
not in your sorts, i don’t want rocks and bentley’s
i’d throw, rocks, at bentley’s so you know that i’m the opposite of kidding, moderate deflecting, ‘tauga spartans in your city, boston bombing if your dissing, coffins get to droppin’ i ain’t talkin’ hall’s for healing, but i might, cough and drop, when them bong rips hit me, blotter strips and sheets, half a bottle of some henny, imma off ’em all quicker than a toddler in a hemi, then i f-ck a b-tch, just because she pretty, tad bit thicky, kind of picky, but the clothes she rock is kind of thrifty, gave her good d-cking left some hickeys on her t-tties
smoked her out with h-lla weed, i lost count of swisher sweets, she rollin’ no ecstasy, now she, next to me, and s-xtin’ me cause she don’t want her ex to see, she not into uppers cause she love how this southern mother f-cker is f-ckin’ beats
without a rubber, he spittin’ raw, undeveloped kids up in your b-tches jaw, alhamdulillah
praise your mother f-ckin’ gods, raised by bluffer huntin’ dogs, that’s probably why, when he eats its always f-ckin’ raw
he got anonymous nonsense, all in his conscience, amat victoria curam, pitch bended for ominousness, now yall sit and get lost in this, imma faucet of vomit, my flow sick and i think i got knowledge, i’m like nostradamus nauseous, flippin’ big birds no ostrich, not gonna stop till i’m not, not rich
my, plot to stop, this pop hip hop sh-t, is poppin’ off quick like cops, when robbers dippin’ off with the contents
its embedded in my head to behead anybody better so i guess its guillotine to my neck and my writtens in a shedder, re-ssuring never, even if my time was present, i got such a gift of spittin’ i’d be resurrected better

- trippy tyler

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