Prisms

Boy this Glock is cocked and ready to pop up on another hoe
 Hollow points will have your bitch ass knocking on the devil's door
 Yo...
 I'm Majin Buu up off the juice; just let me talk to you
 You cross my mind from time to time, but what's it costed you?
 I'm stuck inside the prisms of this indica, I'm in the cut
 I'm feeling anxious
 Roll it up and thank it
 But I wonder if she thinks about me?
 Thinks when she drinks about me?
 And I don't know the answers
 Walk with lady luck as I beg to hold her hand first
 Ayo, feelings are cancerous
 Cannabis sandwiched in a damn thick manuscript
 And I'm just trying to McMahon the shit
 Big boss
 Grow a pair (pear) I'm Rick Ross
 Riding til the shift's off
 "Don't fuck this up", thank you for the tip, boss
 Creeping out the sticks, ma
 Feeling kind of big, boy
 Big and tall. I'm sick of stalling hitting margin ends
 Feeling part carcass, smart artist with an awkward trend
 Hard Benjamins spent on carcinogens
 Demons crawling out my mouth; I'm talcumed out
 Fresh cut with a couple bad bitches in the front seat
 If my conscious were personified, I bet it'd probably punch me
 Yo, why you telling lies for?
 Catch me by the dime store listening to Grindcore
 I need bread? I rhyme more
 If only I would try more...
 It's yours, isn't it?