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Artist: Soul Position f/ Copywrite, Jakki Tha Motamouth
Album:  8 Million Stories
Song:   Still Listening (Remix)
Typed by:

[Intro] [Jakki talking]
Yo... yo
That's a classic slang before a motherfuckin' rap song
Just thought I'd toss that shit in.

[Jakki Tha Motamouth]
I'm glad niggas hate when I mash in the place
Get you mad when I palm your bitches ass in your face
I laugh when you fake
Cause you look silly when I apply Whiteout to your gluteus son
Your ass is erased
Tell that retarded kid I won't battle his friend
So he lost and I'll smack him if he asks me again
You slightly tired and grim
To rhyme like me 
You need to ask your god permission to be higher than him
Then we heard you spit, ain't rippin' me chief
Hit the road like you tryin' to stick your dick in the street
Kick in your teeth
You can't bite, you suckin' on corn
Your ugly mom got a dick, now how the fuck was your born?
I eat pussy, so you? You know I'm gonna go through
I'm lookin' at your bitch, wondering how the fuck she chose you
I make a cake and you're the main ingredient
Yeah I heard your tape
So what are you? A stand up comedian?
I lie too much
I'm such a disgrace
I tell niggas they dope just to get them out my face
I'm able to read stunts and I'm eyein' your freak
She's been faithful for three months and she dyin' to cheat
Listen to this cat
He way out in space 
Nigga you wack, you need to get the fuck up outta my face
It's Jakki from the Weathermen crew
You know, the one who all you niggas say is better than you
And I'm sittin' in this ciphers with these babblin' L's
Your cipher is boring, here let me battle myself
You niggas are gettin' mopped kid
I trust you suck
Say I'm weak around your pops and he'll fuck you up
You're losing your health, losing your belt
Hop in your body, look in the mirror and watch you lose to yourself
Motherfuckers are lunch when I brawl
Put you in a headlock
Bite on your cranium and crunch on your skull

Rashaad your music is dog shit, cat
Don't ever talk crap 
Been signed for five years 
Still can't reach the level I'm at
Gettin' jerked by every label you fuck with
Your sister's got talent
Was it your mom or you who taught her to suck dick?
Used to have the number two crew before they stepped, soldier
No Logic and Tage left
Now you got leftovers
Beats are a pity plus your singin' is shitty
No one knows y'all cause y'all ain't done a thing in the city
And none of you chumps can't fuck with half the clans I shit on
I'll kill Rashaad
Now you don't have a chance to get on
Your ass represents about as much as a black president
CD sounds like The Lox with a cash deficit
You half steppin' it
Y'all ain't battle equipped
Shit, I'll sell you one of my rhymes to battle me with
I could go on for days on how poor you bitch queens are
But no one knows you so you ain't worth more than 16 bars

This rap war
Keep us on the move like matadors
Three role models, invade your catalogs
We heard you got stacks of props and wax galore
I bum rush the front
Jakki's at the back door
You ran as expected
Scared to show your spine
Jetted for the exit
Right into his clothesline 
Hit the ground and blacked out
Drops your gold mine
Woke up and saw we had you set up the whole time
I keep tabs 
On crabs with loose lips
I follow 'em to work
Document their movements
I stake out open mics
I listen to they music
I even take flicks of the chicks they fool with
Fool proof, bullet proof
Plan that can't fail
To black mail big money cats that rap frail
They chewin' off they fingers
They bitin' at the nail
Greenhouse celebrated with a glass of ale
They never saw me comin'
I kill beef skillfully
I got three verses for cats that ain't feelin' me
The first one's subliminal without your identity
The other two got your name if you try to shit on me
That's three
For each MC I don't speak to
I start with the veterans
I finish with the weak crews
Don't assume I can't write about it till I meet you
I had a verse ready before I had beef with you
I see you tryin' to steal my spark
But don't think your closed mind can box in my art
For crews that wanna bite, I'll put a dagger in your heart
Break up your cipher, leave it lookin' like a pie chart
I hope you like second place
You'll have to settle
The consolation prize is in bronze medals
Vice like my grip, we can thumb wrestle
I have your hands lookin' like an Auntie Aunt's Pretzel
I'm bigger than bass lines
Bigger than beat tapes
Bigger than 45's and bigger than beat breaks
I'm bigger than bootleggers
Bigger than cheapskates
Bigger than internet hype and album release dates
I shine on dirty dubs and fucked up mix downs
I shine in closed caption, when you can't hear a sound
The testament to my skill is you're still listenin'
Forty bars later and never lost attention