Skillz – Murda Gram (Uncle Murda Diss)

You not worthy, you’re just dirty and thirsty
Get gone. Clark, you know I ain’t that dude
Now who the fuck get shot and make a tape called respect the shooter, huh
Talkin’ ‘bout he heard your version of my song
Reminding you on who the fuck you are
I’m Pusha Ting, remindin’ these niggas who the fuck I am, damn
And I don’t want credit for this, this ain’t nothin’
Foxy, umm, Lil Kim and Cease
No love over here, yeah, this the future
And tell that old faced-ass nigga to leave me alone
Smack that dirty fitted off your head, New York lost
That shit read like it on the side of a funeral home
I heard back in your past you used to bust your gun
You got to think B.I.G. if you wanna come for me
Motherfuckers want to kill me but ain’t got the heart
Skyzoo, Torae, oh Joell Ortiz
And tell him 21 Savage want to do "22 Two’s"
But you one of the reasons that New York soft
I ain’t Tweetin’, I ain’t leavin’ the ‘Gram
A song? Naw, straight curvin’ niggas
Don’t hide your hand, you wanted to be a wrap-up fan
Uncle Murda, what’s all the games about?
Clark Kent, your man about to hold this L
You a adlibber but that’s all you do
Y’all jaded Why the fuck would I collab on some shit that I created?
And then you started makin’ ‘em takin’ your little shots
You sendin’ DMs like a thirty chick
And trying to reach out to see if we can do it together
So stop fuckin’ with us, I go with Kane, B.I.G. and Jay, but that’s obvious
Whoever told you to change your name, you should kill that nigga
Lenny Grant, I can’t leave that alone
Nigga stop it, you got Brooklyn lookin’ crazy
I get a call from Clark Kent and he don’t ever call me
Mos Def, Kweli, Masta Ace, Fabolous
Respect to your dad, that’s the least I can do
Actually, umm, naw, fuck him too
Nigga, keep my fucking name out your brown-ass mouth
And when you see me, you know what I’ma say
Couple years ago I’m up in AC
He told you, you was bitin’ and you knew that you was wrong
You’ll never say you took me
I was spreadin’ love, it’s the Virginia way, nigga
So I picked the mic back up for this walk in the park
I’m like, “Clark, nigga you must be faded
Now if you a junior then that name makes sense
I give a fuck, nigga, I don’t care, have a seat, here’s a chair
But I ain’t never hear ‘em, they only play ‘em up top
You a comedian, we don’t come to you for bars
So roll some weed I got a story to tell, listen
The fuck wrong with y’all? Nigga, would you?
And you can guntalk all day, that’s yours
You make them every year, they never get past Jersey
We straight, on top of that you fake
will give you some pussy Before that happens, Young M.A.
I just answerin’ a nigga that kept pressin’ my buttons
I got cases in Virginia, bodies in D.C
Buckshot, Tek and Steele, Rock and Ruck
I heard you got popped and you ain’t peel that nigga
M.O.P. would have told you you shouldn’t fuck with me
Still M-A-D, where your skills at nigga?
Ladies and gents, this nigga gettin’ washed and rinsed
But you ain’t seein’ me with these goddamn bars
But this type of shit happens everyday
I’m with Joey BADA$$, ask AZ
Now how a Stan going to come for the man?
And what I’m ‘bout to say might piss New York off
A worker who could never be a New York boss
Nigga, dead-ass son, I’m not the one
And yeah I fell back on rap but don’t get it confused.”
And I’m still VA, and I’m still that nigga
Matter-fact, you got Brooklyn lookin’ lazy
But not for nothing you was tryin to make it better
I wouldn’t even take a picture with Uncle Murda, nigga
Nigga, you kept pushin’ so I had to play
Shit lit my fuse, you wouldn’t call Hov
I can name 20 Brooklyn rappers more relevant than you

Bitin’ niggas, I could never get along with y’all
Nigga, you signed to G-Unit ten years too late
And got mad when I asked your dirty-ass, “Who this?”
If you don’t get the fuck off my phone