In this sad-mind...Rap-pines in it's phonic-fashion...
This lil nigga steps the streets wit panasonics-blastin...
Fact-is, rap-is his life, hip-hop-in-the-soul...
He play paties, But He real-hot-but-unknown...

And he's prone, To all the street destroyin-his-dream...
Skill kept discrete when flowin, day by day he is blowin-his-green...
On Pad and paper, pens and disc-makers...
A Mic to record, not hestant ta risk-paychecks...

Wrapped his chest in words, thaz how much his hearts in it...
His hearts centered on the realization that he might make it...
Blow a rhyme take it, Spit back and was critisized naked...
Like a bad doctor, he stopped waitin an' lost patients...

Switched his name to Hummel, Playin The Dozens-wit-an-Alias...
Puffin trees, a nervous wreck, Thought his Cuzzin-was-an-Alien...
Popped-A-glock, walked in to a 'record store' and 'rocked-the-Shop'...
Wasted a customer or too, Looked out the door and saw-the-cop...

Blazed as fuck, and now a Fugitive-on-with-John-Walsh...
Police cut him off, "We're loosin-him-and-his-lost-song"...

word, sure is. your style is tight.