My shot gun bullets I restock, frighten people more than Alfred Hitchcock,
Feel the wrath of my pyro linguistics - turning fiends into homicide statistics,
Clowns calling themselves indie misfits, you dipshits I'll put on six hits,
Flow so hard my brand is called cement mix, rewind you find Tberror,
The lyrical terror, a mastermind of the the literature kind, putting your words in a bind.
The Ultimate design any weapon is concealable, it's TB king of every syllable,
Coming straight at you chumps on the loose and there is no truce, speaking the truth,
From the street to the booth, throw ya hands up saying please don't shoot,
I cock the hammer, and take your loot you're getting fucked you prostitute,
It's a TB thing that I'm speaking any day of the week and they call me T.A.B,
Vicious initials inscribe into your skin with sharp utensils - also known as the G.O.A.T,
The greatest of all time master of any beat and any rhyme.
A lower class citizen has arisen, try to burn me?
I'll step out of the booth in a fire proof suit with ice cold rhymes to shoot,
Colder than Poseiden with his trident I remain defiant of the sleeping giant,
Hotter than Haides in his black mercedes.
Everyone is a tragic addict with an itch they can't scratch,
Falling into a relapse until their wills collapse on the tarmac.
