Boing - PMD, MF Mez, MF Grimm

People say

«Grimm, you’ve been shot like 50

So why don’t you just rhyme like 50?

Then you could get the money like 50

Otherwise, before you see success, you’ll be 50

There’s no money in the underground, it’s iffy

No loyalty either, man, fans are real picky»

I ignore what they say, give the world my heart and soul

My inner strength can’t be measured by no BDS

The length of the race not forty yards but marathon

I’ll laugh at the sprinters ‘cause they dashed, now they’re breathing hard

Mentally break it down off-pace ‘til all wheezing

Now competition also eat dust because I leave ‘em

To a science, my cranium mimics

Vibrations of plutonium and uranium combinations

Then I adlib all the radiation

Push the red button, distribute it to the nation

You could

Spit a lot of shit but ain’t hotter than this

You could get a lot of kids but ain’t stopping the clique

You could spit a lot of clips but they all gon' miss, and you

Could get a lot of chips, but we’re robbing your shit

Ayyo, watch me

Bounce on a track, honeys bounce in the back

Bouncing they ass.

Funny how you doubting my raps, dummy

‘Til it’s amounting a mountain of cash money

Counting my stacks, son, and stuff ‘em in the couch for

The stash ‘til it got a lot of G’s and I’m caught up in

The cheese like a mouse in a trap.

Fuck it

I don’t care who you down with and that

Come around where they at, I’ll lay ‘em down on their back, fucker

I don’t care about the pounds of your crack

Or the rounds in your gat.

You laid it down on your track?

So what?

I ain’t scared how you sound when you rap

And you talking mad shit like mouth is your ass.

Hold up

I ain’t down with them cats.

Move around, can’t

Be found or tracked down, a mouth and a flash.

Know what?

I’ll be out like The Flash if the cops roll up

Get your spot blown up, and I’ll pounce on

The cats

You could

Spit a lot of shit but ain’t hotter than this

You could get a lot of kids but ain’t stopping the clique

You could spit a lot of clips but they all gon' miss, and you

Could get a lot of chips, but we’re robbing your shit

Uh huh.

Yeah, yo, I don’t worry

‘Bout nothing.

I’ll leave with a guard.

It’s PMD

And the Hit Squad with the universal entourage.

I’ll lift them

Little weights like it’s nothing long as my blood’s pumping

I don’t worry about the bullshit ‘cause it don’t mean nothing

Love is love, so I push to be better

I’m too clever, PMD shine in any weather.

It’s

The no-look from Bibby, but y’all call him Grimm

Keep on a hoodie and Timbs, maintaining them ends.

Me?

I’ll never sell out or sell my soul

He’s a b-boy for real, so put that talk on hold

Strictly Business, always rep my mic hard

You’ll put your money on the god, but I put my money on God’s swings

You could

Spit a lot of shit but ain’t hotter than this

You could get a lot of kids but ain’t stopping the clique

You could spit a lot of clips but they all gon' miss, and you

Could get a lot of chips, but we’re robbing your shit