West Coast Most-Mr. Criminal

The number one independent label killin’ ‘em in the game… Independent… You’re now tuned into the number one, Latin rap artist in the Chicano rap industry… Ha-ha…number one on the Billboards… Number one on the streets, and number one with the sales… Ha-ha, who the f**k you think you talkin’ to… Who the f**k you think you talkin’ to, you done f**ked up homie now the talk is through. The streets f**k with real Gs, they don’t f**k with you, in the streets, in the avenue, they bumpin’ who? That Mr. Criminal shit, number one, they feelin’ me trick, boss of all bosses, foos be on some silly shit, that young, brown and dangerous album, homie, this really hits, economy crash, foos still lining up in this recession bitch. Hs up worldwide, thank you for the purchase, foos be on some B***h s**t so I clown they ass on purpose. What happened to the days of real tracks and real raps, The Internet came, flooded the game, and killed that. All these MySpace rappers came out overnight, begging for a deal from the label, pathetic, right? No skills having motherf**kers get no credit, like, so they get on Twitter talkin’ shit, jealous every night. What kind of sideways B***h s**t is that? Motherf**kers turning fatal trying to click up with the cat, but these half-ass, bitch, wanna-be rappers get no dap, and now, all of sudden, they bosses comin’ up, what kind of s**t is that? Foos couldn’t hang with that G shit, no shows rocked, now you see them rockin’ skinny jeans and Mohawks. Other fools fell off the game, no love lost, Plucked out the game like they eyebrows, no love lost, I’m from the home of the gangbang and gunshots, foos be on some candy shit, like bubblegum drops, flow’s watered down, they get no love, not from the brown, they got no fans local, they mines, worldwide, all around. Pobrecito, the flows I spit is lethal, f**k a sequel, if you trip, I’ll put you in the ground beneath you. I’m sick with it, I get explicit, the triple x rapper, Producing his own CD, yo I’m a triple treat these foos ain’t ready for war, so don’t even test, homies from the varrio back my plaques, so come see me yes, I’m a Westsider like Tupac, California Love coming out of the rooftop, And I just might be, one of the sickest Latin rappers on the microphone, Foos really need to leave the mic alone, my homies tell me Mr. Criminal, dogg, you killing ‘em homes, almost satisfied but not quite yet, there’s still a hole that needs to be filled, f**k it, it’s a cheap thrill to hit the game every year and give their ass a refill, I gotta tell the truth, if not the streets will, I guess that’s why their wack ass s**t lookin’ weak still