It's whatever h8er

I just be,
 
walkin' and talkin', spittin' flames from my coffin.

My flames contain nails that hatters bam in it often,

but I refuse to die and condemn them all aswell like

" Yeah they deserve to die and I hope they burn in hell!"

I hope it slow roast that a@# and flame kiss the tail.

I stopped dreamin' bout' heaven the day I was born in hell.

So I aint' worried bouda B@#$% be it male or female.

I carry eyes on my back and smell thier hate in the air.

They're puttin' knives in my back like it's making me fight fair,

because they looked into my barrels and thought I shot'um a stare.

Why the hell shoot at something you barely thought was there?

The only time I hurt my h8ers is when they act like they care.

Lovin' to hate. Sometimes they can barely look in my face.

The moment I smile. I squeeze thier souls tight enough to break.

I broke thier hearts and leave'um so deep down in the dark

hoping I fall with drool that salivates when they talk.

I hate to love'um but F@#$'um my pepper needed some salt

and now that I'm seasoned I guess I'll just outline'um in chalk.


By: Michael Laray Robinson