iLL

[Chorus: Samples]

"—I'm so ill"

("Welcome to Hell where you are welcome to sell")

"—i—" "—ill"

("All scars, we earn 'em, all cars, we learn 'em")

"—I'm so ill"

("When them shells come, you better return 'em")

"—i—" "—i—" "—ill"

[Verse 1: Royce da 5'9"]

Uh, I came in here with enforcers and with the goons

I never fail, I aim for the stars, came up short, then I hit the moon

I'm more G than if Voorhees had the pumpkin face

MAC-11 thumpin', chase bitches never dump them

Make 'em get out

Control they minds, keep them down on that sunken place (Unreal)

Which is why your boy remains on top

I tell the baddest bitch around

"Hoe, you look like Tory Lanez jump shot"

I use to think raw sex was the sacred shit (Haha)

'Til I switch to faithful, ate some sushi from off the chest

Of a naked chick, now I just be dissing hoes

Yeah, momma, your son's grown

I literally turned down your wife so many times

Her pussy lips ice-grilling you while you licking it with your fronts on (Unreal)

Either get out my face or I'm defacin' you with a comment (Woo)

Rappers like a bunch of baby birds waitin' for me to vomit (Uh)

Nigga say that they the illest rhyming, now they got to see me (Woo)

I'm what'chu call them Detroit Problems, now they got DP

Now I got the AR, so now they gotta back up

Lying 'til they got a twelve inch nose, now they got three feet

I'm who your hoes thirst for, you're the worst flow-er

To the Book of Ryan, I keep my story low, I'm the first floor

[Chorus: Samples]

"—i—" "—i—" "—ill"

("When them shells come, you better return 'em")

"—i—" "—i—" "—ill"

[Verse 2: Conway the Machine]

Look

Word on the streets is niggas mad, I'm rufflin' niggas feathers

Tell them sucka niggas I said, "Fuck them niggas," whatever (Haah)

You niggas know y'all can't fuck with me, nigga, never

You can line them niggas up, put a bunch of niggas together

Yeah, I stick the clip in and pop (Hm)

The kinda shit that I'm on is reminiscent of Pac

Grippin' the Glock, bandana on, blick at the cops

Pickin' your spot, got the hammer drawn, lift up ya top

Nigga, you not no gangsta, you just a rapper, I can tell

I can tell it's fishscale, bust the plastic, I can smell

This for niggas behind the wall that keep the ratchet in they cell

That'll stab you 'til you yell, while they passin' out the mail, yeah (Woo)

My automatic full of shells, they try to take me out before

But I had to just prevail (I'm still here)

I know the goons, the little savages as well

I know the plug, make a call and get a package in the mail

It's passion that I'm rapping with these rap niggas is real

Street nigga, but I'm rappin' like I graduated Yale (Talk to 'em)

I ain't attracted to the plaques and all the sales

'Cause if I ain't the illest rapper, then actually I failed

Look, you must got it confused (Hah)

Come at me sideways, and get you yo' spot on the news (Hahahaha)

You gotta be fools, shawty get used, goons body you smooth (Cap)

Put you in a funeral home, body get viewed (Boom boom)

[Chorus: Samples]

"—I'm so ill"

("Welcome to Hell where you are welcome to sell")

"—i—" "—ill"

("All scars, we earn 'em, all cars, we learn 'em")

"—I'm so ill"

("When them shells come, you better return 'em")

"—i—" "—i—" "—ill"