Hey Roc, can't write, go back to rollin and smokin trees,
I break your legs, til your femurs poke through yer knees,
You're about as ill, as the contraction I will,
You keep droppin, I don't know why you try still,
Bout as ill as a fuckin bald cancer patient,
Swallowin' Anonomous cum, wonderin where the taste went,
Now that aint no shot at Anon, for you to try and play on,
How's being in a slump feel, I bet you feel like drawin a blank,
Cunt, your about as useless or useful, as bra on a skank
That Roc, Bitch drowned doing doggy paddle, and I think you'll last,
As your long as lame hot rhymes in an ice rink, you'll sink fast,
Cause your like a missed paper wad, on the brink of trash,
Your lyrics haven't evolved, like the missing links past,
Like a Coco you should probably try to walk upright,
Barely playin the game, but I think your cups too tight,
Or maybe you have a big cup, like a pair of breast,
Girl finally sucks your sick, but she's like "where's the rest",
Because your small shriveled nuts are just hair at best,
By the time I'm through with you, you'll need a skin graph,
Chuckling while doing it, look at my work, and then laugh,