I'm Not Done - Denace, Dispencery7

Rest in peace, Machine Bun Jelly

Dear Stan… oop, shit, scratch that

Dear Mr. I’m-too-good-to-call-or-write-the-Stans

This is the last package I ever send your ass

But it’s your eulogy, stupid geek, hope you like it

Took me two beers and a jelly sandwich to write it

Been six days now, no word, I don’t deserve it

You got my last diss, bitch, 'cause it was perfect!

The flow was a little off 'cause I had a fifth of vodka

Marshall came through with the kill

And then shot ya

But this is the double tap to this fuckin' brat

And the rest of mumble rap (Woo)

It’s time to cut the track like a lumberjack

Can’t believe you need a bodyguard to chuck a jab

Talkin' up a bunch of smack, what the fuck is up with that?

Only place your punches land

Is a fuckin' punching bag, cut the act

I’m sure this barrel will fit where your apparel would sit

More street cred than Vanilla Ice, I’m barely convinced

Both of you wore the same parachute dress

That didn’t even open when your careers took a plunge

Fired shots on your entire block

How can I be afraid of death when I die a lot?

(Whoops)

I heard Em disowned you, I might adopt (Lil Tay)

Popped up, buyin' shots, got blocked

Left your tabs open, Firefox

And how’s this guy still tweetin' from inside a box?

Did you Fall Out, Boy, and now you’re tryna rock?

Nice tat, now go binge on a giant cock

You got a record deal and I don’t (Bitch)

You can sign whatever you like but I won’t (Bad boy)

You don’t know, you don’t know

You don’t know me

You can hate all you like, say what you might

But I’ll never lose sleep (Nope)

You know what rhymes with Iggy Azalea?

(What?)

Talentless, overrated, chick from Australia (What else?)

Fake, plastic, paraphernalia

Ass and tits like they were bit by a tick with Malaria (Gross)

Yeah, now it’s our turn, shit

Joe Budden’s getting clicked like the power-on switch

Such a sour old bitch, and delirious

Sirius, you faker than Howard Stern’s wig

And you can hardly hang, 'bout to drop like Artie Lange

Retired from hip-hop the day the truck

To pick up the fuckin' garbage came, Charlamagne

And you can depart a plane into the ocean

So we never hear your retarded brain start again

Bhad Bhabi, you clearly a hoe

How you been 15 for three years in a row?

Go on Dr. Phil’s show, and call your mom a bitch

Now you’re makin' hits?

(Huh?)

And people got the nerve to ask why I’m an atheist?

Shit, no wonder I’m feeling alone

It’s a conspiracy, bro!

Earth is flat!

Not a sphere or a globe!

Eminem is a clone!

Kylie Jenner’s the richest woman alive from a career on her own!

Shit… I guess the world is full of idiots

No wonder I give up tryna give a shit (Aah!)

I’m Steve Jobs to this PC culture

So like Bruce Jenner’s dick, time to get rid of it (Oops)

Odd «Future», you’re way too predictable

'Bout to cut you into more pieces than an Eminem interview (Haha)

By the way why you tryna make him sway, Sway?

Retract calling someone who called himself gay, gay

Damn, did you guys forget what rapping is?

(Huh?)

Fall on your head and forget who Marshall Mathers is?

(Huh?)

The church is jacking kids, Donald Trump is grabbing tits

But you’re mad at this?

(Wow)

Well, guess what?

(What?)

Tyler’s still a faggot bitch

You don’t know, you don’t know

You don’t know me

You can hate all you like, say what you might

But I’ll never lose sleep (Nope)

Hey, little troll, put the gun down (Gra-ta-ta-ta)

Everybody blood now

I got the munchies, you’re just lunch meat

I bring such heat, you must bring sunscreen (Woo!)

Yeah, I drove off a bridge, right into Crystal Lake

With my Lil Pump in the trunk wrapped in some tape

They call me Stan, fuck 'em, I’m rambunctious

Came back to life with an appetite for

Some clout chasing, an amp to fight more

Take a bite, it’s so damn delightful

They can hate, but they can’t deny me

They have an issue, Stans behind me

Blue, yellow, purple pills

Enter the Matrix, agent’s field

You all sound the same, it’s sick

You even look alike, face tats, and lisps

A bunch of hypocrites at the least, you fake cunts

At least I sound like the mothafuckin' greatest

You don’t know, you don’t know

You don’t know me

You can hate all you like, say what you might

But I’ll never lose sleep (Nope)

Sincerely, Stan

P. S. Fuck Logan Paul!

Ugh, fuck!

Spit your rhymes (Yeah) like that’s it