Robert Horry

I am not a brand

I am just the reason you call a fireman

On the stage, don’t tremble, been blessed with quiet hands

That dismember fake rappers as seen in diagrams

Fam, here’s a death sentence for ya fragments

I’ve been a lethal injection, in a your vein

Ever since my advent, **** get a tad bent

Outta shape when I start to demonstrate

That this shit is close curtains, plus I hemmed the drapes

On the window to your soul, repose, it’s getting late

Wait, that would mean you’re blind from my optics

**** live fast, but not fly, like an ostrich

All y’all styles is old, put it in hospice

My magic pen can turn your fan to a hostage

In the land of the godless, I’m so nice with writtens

That I get paid to say “Fuck capitalism.”

Get em’

I am not a fan

If you got a million high hats in ya raps

That’s, where ya flow should be on the track

Brrrrrat, another fuckin’ fraud on the mat

Hit the floor with a splat like you fell, twenty stories

For sugarcoated smack that swears it’s hunky dory

Love for the legends that spat truth before me

Being a big shot, don’t mean you’re Robert Horry

What they taught me when I listened through my headphones

All I’m leaving in my wake is some dead poems

At the site of crap rap career headstones

In the zone, fuck clones, I’m cinematic

This that top floor, top drawer, in the attic

**** like “Dagnabit, he done it again.”

I’m Death Valley in the summer, bout a hunnit and ten

Fry an egg on ya car when I pick up my pen, uhhhhh