URLtv – Qleen Paper Vs B Magic lyrics

[Round 1: Qleen Paper]
Qleen Paper, vers' B Magic
And nigga I'm not smiling, this shit 'bout to be tragic
And I dare you hop stupid, 'cause if B rabbit
These 'matics a split your peers in three fractions
Keep yapping, fo'-fifths appear 'cause we strapped in
If he need action, I make B Magic see 'matics then disappear
Now you done dropped into a pitfall
Rolled into a whirlpool and knocked into a brick wall
See now I'm getting pissed off
And I'm subject to pull his bitch card
'Cause we all know, he white-girl-brick soft
And I cave his fucking mouth in, so before this bout end he might get his shit sauced
I'm on my UFC shit, dog
Hop in his Octagon, and I'ma drop the bomb, Kris Kross
Soft-ass Crip, you'll talk that shit
This nigga probably bleed if I smacked him with my bitch cloth
Now get hard in the place
And I'm getting on yo' goof ass
Snapping six stars in yo' face, spitting on that flu rag
Vice Lord riding on him, shoot him when we shoot past
I'm in that super cool class, you know, Maseratis
And who the fuck got this Subaru gassed?
My connect cheap tickets, got me moving through bags
My team wit' it, we hit that I-7-5 route wit' a few [?]
Careful what you choose to do fag
'Cause all my b's vicious
And we keep biscuits for E-rickets
You got a motherfucking problem then leap cricket
But once that black and gold rag wrap that MAC and chrome mag, B listen this shit gon' be wicked
I slump him with the toast then, dump him in the ocean, send him deep-sea fishing
Listen, weapons from overseas, but the heat that we crep' in
A flip a fucking Mack Truck and make a Corvette bend
If my set, hit yo' set, with them TECs, you just stretched then
Little brother panicking, looking for the mag when we stepped in
Baby crying, baby ma breathless, she can't catch her next wind
Detectives on the block, asking niggas where we left in
And his mom going crazy, smacking on his best friend
So you should focus on the spoken lesson
'Fore you go boasting 'bout how yo' profession
Is toting weapons like you blow the Wesson
Now outta nowhere, I done got the urge for a little roasting session
Now we gon' talk about your little Crip set rank
And all the pictures that yo' TEC paint
But he one of them niggas that just look like his breath stank
Now regardless of the fact of whether he gargling, he always got that skelly pulled low as fuck, so I know the back of his neck stank
Now I got this nigga looking like it's fourth down
And he done turnt that skin a pork round
But before I go into any more rounds
I gotta hold my fort down
You know how I roll, bunny rabbits up, forks down
Light work!


[Round 1: B Magic]
I'm gonna fuck this nigga up, you gon' see the proof
Niggas act gangsta when they battle in a sealed booth
Call me a zookeeper how I let that Eagle loose
Magic throw the metal at your mouth like Beetlejuice
I warn G before I regulate, kick after a stomp
I break your fucking jaw with the drifter after a punch
Your rib cracks with the pump, let your bitch have it for months
I'm through the legs and in the hole: spectacular dunk
Wigs snap when I dump, call me wig-push-backer
Two-four arms over ya' head: bushwhackers
The kush rapper when a 'bow let him snooze
Bitch you ain't did shit, like ya' bowels never move
Fucking double Dutch jumper, it's your turn when that TEC sting
Pop him while he sleep, take him out with a wet dream
You talk your way outta fights, I get 'em head-beams
When my dogs bark that's the cue, like a step team
Type of swelling
Chrome to your melon
I'm the generous one but why the fuck you let this L in?
I just got my [?] in
I sunroof ya' cell in
B Magic caught him, then I beat his chest, till it fell in
Just got some mail in
Message from the OG
12 guns, that mean you well-done when I roast beef
Ho please, when that fo' speak give you cold feet
Missile blow it'll rip ya' soul like old sneaks
You police, so stop talking how you get it in
Ya' fox blow my cell up, like Law Abiding Citizen
The hawk is gonna fill him in
I'm tired of you mark thugs
Better tune up 'fore you get wired when that spark plug
Soft pussy, you probably took a dick or two
You ball out? You doghouse, I can see the bitch in you
You rock Capris and glitter boots, you jiggaboo
Altoid case homie, these cans was meant for you
Saint Louis Junior Gong how we jam rock
Thinking you big dog till you playing on that sandlot
That hand cock, I blast heat, you mad weak
Ask me, you a fag's speech, away from Raz-B
I drag creeps, you ain't 'bout shit don't do me
I'm out here you moolie, get your top split with Uzis
Glock hit ya' doobie, that shotgun toolie
Shoot ya' son over a wall like that South Central movie
Did you hear me? I ain't gon' repeat the shit
I right-click, cut, copy, paste, delete ya' bitch
She got a mouth you can deep-throat a two-liter with
Let me take a breather quick
Look man ran up, I ran with the damn can up
Fucking roach, can you get that through ya' antennas?
I blam with the blam-blammer, you vamp when ya' man ran up
You could get killed for the shit you saying on the damn camera.....blue bandana!
Magic let the 80 peel
I got a army that'll get ya' whole navy sealed
You ever seen Baby Blues? Get your baby killed
Pull a can, make dirty dance, Patrick Swayze skills


[Round 2: Qleen Paper]
Now this shit get more ridiculous every round
Now B Magic dog, you know damn well ain't nothing wild where you hang at
But let you tell it you fuck with pounds, you slang packs
You fuck around with bricks and you bust 'em down, okay
Well since you like to rock the shade black
And you hang where orangutans at and you bang straps
Hustle down to the D, 'cause I can arrange that
There everybody know QP, I'm still that same cat
Not that SONS nigga, I ain't a fucking child, he from southern Cal where it never rain at
But back to you, this fag is coochie
I will fo'-fo' mag ya' Kufi
Clap at dog while he [?] off, make him crash his hooptie
You try getting close to Q, me and my dogs smoking you like how we pass the loosie
Difference is they ain't gotta ask for my backs to shoot and detach ya' roof
Two words that attract to you: ass and dookie
Me, I'm all facts and proof and that's the truth
You, was running 'round with yo' little rapping crew
I had packs to shoot shooting strap for loot
Lieutenants, in this clique to clap ya' troops
You got a childish flow dog
You still spitting all them punchlines nigga?
I ain't even 'bout to try to out-punchline you 'cause I ain't a punchline nigga
Now see I just laugh at that
'Cause if he had the strap and I had the strap I'd dump mine's quicker
And front him one time I burn a TEC, and I bet these shots burn his chest like my gun fire liquor
See that's why I don't stress the stunting
'Cause I be in the Lou, I'll have a bitch catch him clubbing, get him slumped by a stripper
Bitch nigga, wanna scrap? Put your hands up then
And I dare anybody from yo' fam jump in
While you getting yo' shit ran up in
I ain't stabbing, I'm treating they face like cabinets: something I can put my cans up in
Now you talk that drug dealing crap but, how you dealing packs living in a shack Shaq couldn't stand up in
It's fakes in here, snakes is near I hear the rattle sound
Shottie lift him in the air, he gon' need a landing crew, or put him in the basement with his hands and shoes shackled down
Beef, I'm known to ground that cattle down
I will split your man in two, and in my hand it's two different cannons like Chicago Battlegrounds
Difference between me and this battle clown?
He gon' fight first, brag about how that left fast and that right worse
I'ma let that pipe squirt
Put him in the sky, make him fly how a kite work
I dug a hole, got a casket, got him some pants, a nice shirt
A tux I mean, 'cause I figure since he can't fuck with Qleen
He must like dirt
Light work!


[Round 2: B Magic]
I'm taking this one home
It's known that Q fucking fake
Throw 17 bullets at Q fucking face
In about eight bars, y'all gon' be at Q fucking wake
Pool game is the only time Q touch the eight
You fucking late, I clap rounds yes
Only thing on him clean is a background check
And I'm hat-down fresh
Pussy it ain't hard to prove
When it's beef the heater at your grill, I barb a Q
You play with Barbies Q, how you get to gunplay?
I got a nina, new model, it'll rip a runway
We'll end this weak nigga, like a Sunday
Used to sell this fiend knicks, like where the Suns play
Magic open lung-space, chopper have you see-through
Make it sing for cash money I call it TQ
I disqualify niggas, especially from the D, Q
Throw you off the roof like Bishop because I'm G, Q
Who wanna see Q?
They don't even like you, a'ight dude?
Day 26 don't even like Q
Nigga I will fight you, eat you with this Q shit
Make you breathe and stop in that violent [?] Q (Tip)
Make you flip tryna get inside the mob crew
You gon' need heart from the start, get off my john Q
Nigga I will bomb you, you gon' die
You rap shitty, Rap Ciddy, I give Q fo'-fives
This Eagle I'ma show you how to make it scream
My next body like my room, I gotta make it Qleen
These rappers jump around and just gotta make a scene
Hit this bish' up in his chest, I gotta play the king
My rhyme-saying mean, come in with the shovel
Give 'em nine, Johnny 5 how I'm rolling with the metal
Me and my niggas whooping ass when the [?] tough
Soon as I give my circle the word, cross puzzle
B Magic ain't gon' let a emcee breathe
Another dead Michigan rapper joining MC Breed
I beat a rapper to a pulp, make a emcee bleed
This cannon gon' hurt nick when this emcee leave
If you don't like what I'm saying, then fight me now
See I was with your boo, see, and she wiped me down
Let's get to it, just do it, Nike style
Gave her the cool mo' d, so how you like me now?
He changed his name to Qleen, get cleaned the fuck out
If Qleen trip I'ma knock Qleen, clean the fuck out
Put on a handful of rings, swing and bust mouths
Blow everything in ya' skull out you fuck-mouth
The chopper pop him, if I don't hit his team
Get a mop when I pop, 'cause I won't miss the Qleen
B Magic is a dream, and when I go into a fight
A pair of nines a make Caroline go into the light

[Round 3: Qleen Paper]
Ain't shit gravy in the future I see for Magic
So if you even speak of action or heater clapping then we gon' get it on like the Heat and Magic
Look doje I hit my foot-soldiers and pass 'em each a ratchet
And they click and 'Poof!' Magic
Before you even get to shoot, so fuck if you keep a maggie
'Cause what's the use of having heat to blast and you can't reach and grab it
Now you got these motherfuckers fooled
'Cause I don't know how you got in the Crips, but that's some decent acting I gotta admit
Till QP, been and been in that Impala with tints
And try to hit him with the fo', got him slipping in the snow
And if he try getting ghost, I'ma follow his prints
Plus, I'm touching everybody that you try to touch for help
Now I shoulda called and asked for a fee 'cause I lost the wealth
But aside from passing bags of fiend shit I wasn't doing nothing else
And now I'm getting back pissed off
'Cause this fat fuck reminding me of Rick Ross, thinking he everybody but his fucking self
You think you Aye Verb? Or Yung Ill?
Oh you Hitman? Boy you's a bum still
He is though, he spitting all them lazy lines
Sco peep, this the way he rhyme
"I'm shady guy, raised by killers back in '85
Crazy guy, nine stay cocked like McGrady's eye"
But even if you had that pistol pointed ready to let that 3-80 ride
Asking me questions like "You tryna play me guy?"
I'm the type to throw him a late reply like "Maybe why?"
If any of yo' mans hype, that's just gon' make it worse
You try to float, it's no hope, 'cause with that scope
I'ma far-sight you
Hit him, with a large rifle, spin him, like a wash cycle
Now stop it, you ain't profiting the cake
I pop him, leave nothing, for the coppers, not a trace
But if the Glock ain't on my waist, so I can pop him, in the face
I'ma slide him a buck fifty like he hopping on a freight
B Magic you got to be a real serious dude
Now you know goddamn well
It ain't no way in goddamn hell
That you fucking with Qleen, or on anybody block, tryna make a goddamn sale
Peep if you went with him to put in some work, guaranteed he gon' have you sitting in a goddamn cell
You tryna box and boogie, that's when I'ma reach the heat
Blow a chunk out yo' fat ass, take me a piece of meat
Now I usually do the whole three minutes, but since we all know B finished
This one I'ma keep discreet
Light work!

[Round 3: B Magic]
I will fuck this Highland Park High School student up
I will beat the dogshit outta Miles' little brother
You little midget fucker, 40 cal' let it air slow
Put the chopper in ya' wig, let's have a hair show
It's B Magic I hook yo' ass
Jab jab uppercut, I whoop yo' ass
I heard you did a 120 and they took yo' ass
Pay a lobby clerk to smoke you, Sam Cooke yo' ass
Play with me and get shells from the hawker
You fucking with a god, you'll get nailed if I cross ya'
D's gonna off ya', I be on key
It's Free World motherfucker, fuck 313
No can good but this fruit cock tail
Boat with a hole in it, bitch you do not sell
Leave you neckless like that jeweler gave ya' medulla shells
It's Trey Crip, I'm the shit, if you do not smell
Qleen gon' make me pop the trunk and get that AK
And shoot this faggot vampire, you gay Blade
So why you talking like you popping in the park?
I realize he be lying I forgot he from Detroit
Who gon' move me Q?
Fucking ghost rapper, I'ma call you Susie Q
Little man don't understand what this Uzi do
Serial killer make niggas who acting fruity loop
I click-it-clock-it when I bing-bang shit
And leave ya' group handicapped on some Ying Yang shit
And Qleen he ain't shit
I leave you smoky if I'm robbing son
He gon' need some miracles for surviving this kinda gun
The Temptations from the D and a pistol, so the scope good enough to shoot Otis from a distance
Motown gon' be mad when this clique spit
Hop on stage and beat yo' ass, Trick-Trick
That fifth lift leave you holy, never hide mine
Because I rolls like Royce with these five nines
I'm guessing that the Motor City got a motormouth
Shooting at ya' shit-talkers tryna knock the motor out
I'm holding out, I ain't spitting what I can spit
Drag you on your head down the block: dance flick
Ya' mans get that big Glock till ya' wig pop
Beat me? Who from the D, gave this kid rock?
No Popeye's or Church's I get ya' chick boxed
Take this big L when this punisher hit you big, ock
Like a [?] twist ya' cap till ya' lid pop
You could get beat, or get clapped, over hip-hop
It's a wrap when that MAC hit your rib spot
If you wanna dance I got shooters like Rick Fox
You the type to play the wall, and dick-watch
I ride on him stop and get the rest, pit stop