(hook) – b.ware
100 hand slap, 100 hand slap
that’s the chant, now let me see where them hands at
100 hand slap, 100 hand slap
suckas get smacked when they reach for that dap

(verse 1) – b.ware
fighting with mighty weapons, tightly executed crescent…
kick, he martial the Law, Tekken when game is present
technical essence lessons, extra Black when steppin’
never Fetchit unless it’s the tek, trigger—apply some tension
is that a violent reference? never passive aggression
never turning cheek—‘punk ass’ ain’t never been my profession
never sitting-in, all of my sensei stood up like men
sword pen, drinking spirit water, the Lord’s gin
and that ain’t liquor—been feeding my liver scripture
how you think I became such an anointed deliverer?
how you figure, b.ware such a fuckin’ free-liver?
ducking them Hitlers, never integrated, we realer
fraud killer, ‘hootie hoo’ to my SWATS niggas
eyes on the prize, we gon rise, just stack ya pita…
bread, purpose tattooed on my soul, no henna
filter on everything I take in my system, Brita, nigga!

(bridge) – b.ware
take it from me, get in the way, you’ll get laid down
reckless speech will get you buckled from the waist-down
accuracy all day, we go pound-for-pound
tell me who down when they loot for that sound

(hook) – b.ware

(verse 2) – b.ware
yeah!
this is my second address, shawty was sexing that dress
Lawd she was blessed from her neck-down, plus face was correct
merely in seconds I recognized them eyes, ass, and breasts
she said why can’t she get with me? I said, simply ‘ya dumb as Stimpy!’
where did your mind go? What the deuce, you let niggas reduce you to a side hoe
you ‘too fine’ though? YouTube videos watching you wind slow
Twerk Team how you’re working, views galore
old winos told me, yo, dodge them women who quick to remove they clothes…
just a side note, back to these raps
blacksmith with axes, wielding cutlery to chisel out tracks
fizzle the wack, plus we Nationalists—get back to Black
minus the crack and white women, solely sistas be where I’m sat, blat!

(hook) – b.ware

(verse 3) – b.ware
ye-ye-yea-yeah!
100 hands, Summer of Sam—.44 Caliber
500 fingers, stage 2 clingers up under the man
rattle fellas, ruffle feathers, they tattle tellers
calibrate, funnel the plan, slappin’ suckas with swollen hands
b indecent, muzzle on my mouth at the precinct
extended releasing pharmaceutics in sequence
in black & white like a penguin, you awkward—Dennis Rodman in sequins
win with supreme defense while dream reaching, caesar cut
deviant of cheeba puff, need to keep my breathing up
to geek my people up when performing, my slang foreign, yup
eat up some Pizza-Hut, divide the pie up for all my bruhs
tall as fuck, call my bluff, palm thrashin’ ya, ugh!

(bridge) – b.ware

(hook) – b.ware