These are the last of days, a vast array,
Of fake ****s up in a masquerade,
it's swim or drown, we act we don't sink,
Its primal instinct we rap we don't think,
Its do or die, no turning back like suicide,
Till you're doing time with these cut throats in a suit and tie,
So don't feed the animals, or act a fool,
Your just one man, a young lamb amongst a pack of wolves,
So while you're fighting over scraps and
loose change and moot claims,
Pressures higher up in the food chain,
And small time predators rove in packs,
That why big time executives throw them scraps,
So much static that this is such a hazardous business,
And having to witness that half these rappers are *****es,
Got me laughing hysterically, I've the heart of a pedigree,
So pissing on the next man is just marking my territory,
Rivals will claim over head strong beef,
And try, fighting for fame on these slept on streets,
While I'm, signing my name in the wet concrete,
Touching both sides of your brain when I flex on beats,
And when we sound the drums, I'll see cowards hung,
When my hour comes I'd rather catch a beat down than run,
it's just that honest, I don't rap for these monsters,
I'd rather face the music than turn my back on you.