Yeah

Godfather Don - “Yeah”
[Emcee(s): Godfather Don]
[Producer(s): Godfather Don]

[Verse 1: Godfather Don]
Dead and stinking, thinking of a master plan as the phlegm
Exits. You’re next if my TEC’s is lifeless like it’s
A male form of sepsis, corrosive agents, fatal when
Flagrant, but most is jaded, faded, never
However, the ill pitch-forkers of New Yorker
So I still stalk ya, hunt and kill hawkers
Check it. My postular’s globular and quite o-
-minous, bombing dysentery from your O’s accomplished if
The gore flying yours, lying dead on the pavement
Mind for enslavement be coming with the lame shit
Nigga, surgery’s deserved from me. I start slicing nice and
Smooth and I’ve improved to create mental emergencies
Remains charred, barred to make lard and discard it
I may peep my calm shit, but my god gets retarded if I
Blast-feed ‘em, the last scene’ll be me upon
The altar—ha!—so I’ll refuse to falter
The succubus longs to fuck you—just bring the ruckus
Stuck with a dagger of the finest up your tookus
Colons hemorrhaging while I’m imaging some mutagen
Decapitated cadavers the penalty for you to sin. When
I get cryptic, I’ll rip shit and don’t front
I’ll have you hung, drawn—a quarter the beef is what you want
Yeah

[Verse 2: Godfather Don]
Tonight, y’all, but letters dead is my only issue
The killer crystal wishing that you would pull out your pistol. With you
I smell, melding the bullet into pellets
Well, it’s the ill fucker getting zealous when I tell it
This particular vehicular lyrical style piles
Files full of blacktop, and your crack shot. While I
Mack, my bitch named Gomorrah brings the horror
‘Til your face emaciated from some of the basics
Face it: I’ll take it in a second. Praise God
Allah, no stars are left, but I’m mic-checking my style
Will turn to burn like [?] with the
Paranormal. It’s in the mental, but I’m on ya
Up the consequences, my mind condenses as the
Rhyme commences to pathologically remove anti-
-bodies. You lie defenseless as my corrupt orga-
-nism squisms. Yo, they got you in a prison
Now you [?], punk. I own your whole soul
And got your god sucking six dicks on the whole, so
Oh no he didn’t. You’re smitten, catatonic
My phonics could never be wack like Supersonic
The bubonic plague of plagiary from my cap will cap-
-size, attack your black eyes. In fact, my gat cries
For me to use a [?], expect
The wreck to come from down under in the sewer
Yeah

[Verse 3: Godfather Don]
Alarmed as I embalm your carcass in the darkness
I spark cess while you spit atoms
Back to recital, gristle makes the spittle just
A little insalubrious like sampling [?] disc
Enter me, piss, boy, through disorders organs
On men, I’m causing by orthosis but in higher doses
Many cc’s have to see me for me to be
Décor. I’ll call up on the Lord to make emcees see
The weedwhacker must have been laced with clacker ‘cause
My rap emit emissions, spun on more kids that’s wishing that my
Demonic phonics don’t sonically reach potential
Allow me to reach men who can’t relate. The gates
We bend through [?] detects death, psychosomatic
Fits my ammo, rancid mirages of my demo
As the Earth turns, the words burns ‘em in the [?]
Administering enemas, then I’ma bend your logic to the
Point of no return in the ways of labyrinths
F a fag [?] what matters
Since. Splatter your matter dead-center habit into
Gluttons. You’re trying to rap, but you ain’t saying nothing
Yeah