URLtv, Kitchen Qleen, B Magic - Qleen Paper vs. B Magic lyrics

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 I7-5 route wit' a few
Careful what you choose to do fag
Cause all my b's vicious
And we keep biscuit's 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 rabbit's up
Forks down light work!

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 camerablue 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

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!

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 barbecue 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 City, 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'll make Caroline
Go into the light

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 doja 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!

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 canned 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, akh
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