It's Saint Nick, This Aint, shit, I aim for Sick

It's Saint NIck
This Aint Shit.
I aim for Sick.

My father was killed
So I get off when I steal

Haters taken names
Cuz I'm make em Famous.
You'll see me in your dreams maybe raken paper
Cuz when you step to me, your ganna meet your maker

I might murder you,
BUt only if I heard of you.

Now I'm goin home
Just to bone

I take drastic measures, while you make fake and plastic treasures
I’m sicker than anything, you just lightweight like magic feathers
None fresher, I leave my phone number on your girlfriend’s dresser
I’m quicker, ya can come to my home if ya think your words are clever
Win? Never. That’s absurd cuz I deliver punchlines like a meat cleaver
You an underachiever, I’m tellin ya, you’ll still won’t defeat me either
I stack facts on tracks, when I sayin gassed up, I ain’t talkin chambers
I’m never playin with it, so I can eliminate haters with bags of papers
Could be a crack dealer boxer, you wouldn’t throw a dope punchlines
I smack ya back until ya can’t stand, sharpen ya joke and blunt rhymes
I own the industry; fuck you because you can never fuck around with me
Claim that your name’s legend so I’m about to put you in a box like Whitney
Houston we have a problem. I’ll come to ya house and punch ya in the mouth
I’ll maim and flame lames, you need to watch your tone and change ya route
I use two fingers to destroy your whole crew when I flow and come through
You can never do nuttin. You say you’re the best; I’m take you back to school
I’m the iller than a serial killer when my flows start, ya will never blow to a start
Ya reputation has got the structure of Napoleon, but I still will rip ya bone-a part