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lyrics

Yo, these lames emcees got the game twisted
They got the same beliefs and the same image
The same routines and the same gimmicks
And they got the same disease from the same bitches
You and me, we were raised different
I’m from a place where Santa didn’t pay visits
St. Nick can get the K if he plays witness
You’ll get the blade, dig your grave up in St. Ignace
Listen, I got the vision, no optometrist
Spittin’ wisdom, droppin’ knowledge on these college kids
I got the .44. No Obama shit
Extended magazines, we don’t call ‘em clips
Look, I’ve known Pushas, it’s No Malice
Half my family sold drugs, half were dope addicts
Half these rappers are wack trash with no talent
The other half below average, they’re no challenge

I’ll drink your blood from a gold chalice
I don’t really give a fuck who you sold crack with
I’m not one of your fans you can go catfish
Hmm, they sleepin’ on me like an old mattress
I’ve been known to keep it on me just to go practice
Blow your brains on your spouse, Jackie Onassis
Pull your tongue out your mouth, so graphic
Now I see what you’re sayin’, no closed captions
The devastation of a mortal man
Raised in a generation of spoiled brats
Pray for the veneration of loyal fans
SPK all day, we the royal fam
I’ve been anointed as the one to annoy, attack,
annihilate, berate, castrate, and destroy the track
I exact revenge with an enormous axe
I enjoy examining and explorin’ facts

‘Bout to form a task force full of former fans
And storm ya back porch with a fork in hand
Then I’ll store your fat corpse in a Ford sedan
Parked in the Black Forest on foreign land
We’re fed up with this form of fad
You can get force fed the forty fast
Leave ya on the floor dead with a gory gash
On your fuckin’ forehead, split your gourd in half
I turn bullshit to magic like Horace Grant
I’m back to inform you that I craft important raps
Packed with immortal swag, so ignore the trash
And join the pack as the chorus claps
They jump for joy like Jordan’s back
Kill ‘em all, let the Lord sort ‘em last
I got a lust for life if the lawyers ask
You won’t get lucky twice, make sure it lasts

I’m a morbid man, mesmerized
by Majora’s mask, I’ll drop mortars on your morning mass
Yeah, I’d murder more but the morgue is maxed
I’m nauseated when these normies nag
I need an orange black Porsche with performance pack
And a course to quarterback; quick, record it
Soarin’ past as they storm the track, I just tore this track
Up with a torrid tact; understand
Vultures want war on wax, must be snortin’ Xans
And you’re the last zealot with a triple Z
I listen to your shit to get my kids to sleep
I need a feast; you’re a snack, somethin’ quick to eat
You’re on the dollar menu at Mickey D’s
If I did not offend you a little, leave
I’ll attend ya funeral in some Dickie jeans
Oh my fucking god, as I live and breathe

credits

from Feast or Famine (The Second Helping Deluxe Edition), released September 20, 2022

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A Rapper Named Nati image

A Rapper Named Nati Three Rivers, Michigan

Three Rivers, MI, based hip-hop artist A Rapper Named Nati has been penning rhymes since 1996. He met Dutch producer Rob Maestro in high school, circa 2004. Fifteen years later, the pair have been anointed Self-Proclaimed Kings. (Pronounced “notty.”)

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