About This Track
"It's Over (Freestyle)" is a track by Royce Da 5'9", from the album The Bar Exam 3: The Most Interesting Man, released 30th May 2010. Full lyrics are available below.
Lyrics
[Verse One] They say I'm the best in here Picture your wife fuckin your twin, I'm like him May the best man win, so later for you bums A ways back I made a pact To stay sharp enough to sharpen a razor on my tongue I'm sick with this, you sick like a panty sniffer And you just wanna see her pee, like a dick blister Y'all remind me of Fantasia brother, y'all be wilding On TV every day, I turn on y'all and y'all be cryin I'm surgical with this motherfuckin pen The sickest nigga spittin 'til the end [Verse Two] I don't really have to go against actors I'm the last lyrical WTF-OMG factor So back off 'fore I blow your kneecap off I'ma eat this beat like a beet-eating vegan Industry's where the beef is In the car goin beep-beep while I roll over the drums And just straight peel through the pieces 'Bout to build me a time machine and Get in it and go back, I'm done Find Frank Nitti and Al Capone like "Can y'all autograph my gun?" Haha, I ain't tryin that hard right now, I'm just havin fun Tell the whole world I just had a son First name Earth, last name None You live on that and your cash ain't come And you don't spit that shit, ass ain't gone Raised by a gangsta, come in the house with your ass whipped And you get an ass-whooping What a nigga know about the water in the shower getting cold 'Cause the bathroom faucet is on The reason why I grabbed you, stabbed you, out-rap you When I ain't feeling like talking with chrome Heat a nigga house with the oven, like I like thugging What I probably just spit, on my mother Had to heat up the house with the oven Had to spend the night with my cousin Yes, I be popping lots of shit, you can't do nothin 'bout it, bitch So get the heads up or be my Rock'em-Sock'em opposite I'm like a stock or bond, that could drop a bomb Riding slow with the slidin door on the side Open on that minivan, intended for no soccer mom Lighters up high (High), I'm your fire supply Writer with mad skills, I'm ill, so hire your guy Nobody's harder, he don't give a fuck what he slaughters He will drag your slutty daughter through the muddy waters This beat is bait, get it out of me, I can shit it out me—it's ate I think I owe Drake an apology [Outro] Tweet about that, you little fucking fruit
Lyrics provided by LRCLIB
View full lyrics page →Track details
Explore
No coverage available for Royce Da 5'9" yet.
