Fightin Words - Diabolic

Check one, check two.

'Bolic to the rescue

F-U-C-K the world when I step through

Got that fresh, new, real, raw, uncut

Dumbed down underground, I educate these dumb fucks

Poured out blood guts, filled it with some lime green

Crystallized purple hairs to burn and share with my team

Fuck y’all.

Cops seen the picture on the wide screen

And the Rebel Army’ll calmly leave the crime scene

Exhibit A: baggy pants on the footage live stream

No hipster shit, so my dick can fit inside jeans

Nineteen Nineties shit—New York’s a warzone

Knock your lights out, cut the power to your jawbone

Lord knows Diabolic’s about to make a pit stop

Where these pussies hang like those pics of Little Kim’s twat

Psycho with a sick plot like Alfred Hitchcock

Hip hop, stomp you out in flip flops with gym socks

Soldiers, lace your boots up.

Ladies, lose your high heels

I’m not what you’re used ta—difference is I’m real

And I feel it’s my job to do something about that

Fuck the guys feeling otherwise—meet me out back

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These are Fightin Words

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These are Fightin Words

Yo, check the game plan.

I don’t want to shake hands

Rather see you face-plant like Weezy on a skate ramp

Caveman missing links in my DNA strands

My supporters would slap the shit out Little Wayne fans

I don’t like the radio.

I don’t care where Jay stands

I don’t Watch the Throne or Kanye in his Ray-Bans

State champ treated like Elvis out in Graceland

They pale in comparison, albino to a spray tan

Fat cats, paint cans, break dance cardboard

Art form Mashed Out—"How About Some Hardcore?"

Sharp sword or razor blade, ain’t afraid to start wars

Hard body, Diabolic’s bones’ll break a shark’s jaw

Far more raw, that «Frontline» bomb drop

Nonstop, slaughter every corn pop on top

Songs hot like your mom’s twat feeling Sean’s cock

Full-court buzzer-beater, winning was a longshot

Soldiers, lace your boots up.

Ladies, lose your high heels

I’m not what you’re used ta—difference is I’m real

And I feel it’s my job to do something about that

Fuck the guys feeling otherwise—meet me out back

.

These are Fightin Words

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These are Fightin Words

Soldier, move up.

I don’t give two fucks

Who, what, when, why, where.

Don’t confuse us

Soldier, move up.

I don’t give two fucks

Who, what, when, why, where.

These are Fightin Words

DJ’s ill breaks, Serato was a milk crate

Rhyme to beats on a maxi single, mass appeal tape

Labels making stacks.

Table scraps on my meal plate

Kept it real with a record deal and it feels great

Kill snakes, cut throats, strategize the utmost

Art of war, paint a masterpiece with every brush stroke

Shooting for the stars—crosshairs on my gun scope

Training like Rocky Balboa with a jump rope

Chugged Colt 45, caught a high from blunt smoke

Now Big L and Pun’s ghost live through what I just wrote

Come close, focus on the beast as he mutates

Screw-faced like your boombox ate my Clue tape

Fools shake ‘cause I booby trapped their escape hatch

Payback, fighting ‘til the death in a cage match

May slap your favorite DJ until he plays that

Rare dope, hypodermic needle in the haystack

Soldiers, lace your boots up.

Ladies, lose your high heels

I’m not what you’re used ta—difference is I’m real

And I feel it’s my job to do something about that

Fuck the guys feeling otherwise—meet me out back

.

These are Fightin Words

.

These are Fightin Words

.

These are Fightin Words

.

These are Fightin Words