Hardest Click - K Rino, K-Rino featuring Ganksta NIP, Point Blank, PSK-13, & A.C. Chill

SPC is the hardest clique

DBX don’t give a fuck ‘cause you a star that’s rich

When it comes to flow, we are the shit

We started this from the darkened mist

This Texas chainsaw slaughter shit

AC Chill is who I’m mobbing with

Gangsta NIP don’t even trip on who he squabbing with

We hard to hit and still on niggas talking shit

PSK gon' grab your jaw and twist

Point Blank gon' fuck you, bitch, even though your father’s strict

We are the risk when you target ditch, your car get hit

Now spark and spit, you’re dumped in the darkest ditch

And five-o ain’t solving shit

They acting fraudulent when we walk into the park to sit

You wanna snitch on DBX, I beg your pardon, bitch

If you don’t give a fuck, nigga, then throw it up

If your clique be coming down, nigga, then throw it up

If your clique be popping trunk, nigga, then throw it up

If you fuck with SPC, nigga, you know you fucked, man

Hold up, nigga

The diabolical, dead hair follicles cause baldness

Mass murder’s what you call this

What determines which clique’s the hardest

What makes the hardest rap artist the motherfucker that stays the same

regardless

From ‘8−6 to 2G

Just take a long look at me

I ain’t Ginuwine but I’m the same fucking G

Still hoop and Macgregor, still kick a rhyme whenever

Down to flip or fuck some hoes

Still down for whatever

The hardest motherfucking clique coming straight out the Park

And get your head split bitch ‘cause this axe blade sharp

And keep it like that, nigga, the game is real

You must be sick if you think a psychopath won’t kill

Now let me take a second just to tell you what I’m about

And try to everybody in this bitch no doubt

You want a nigga to run inside this bitch and handle his business

You want a nigga to run inside this bitch and murder the witness

And move something motherfucker, the psych might do ya

(*mouth sound*) just like some sand when the wind went through ya

Don’t give a motherfuck, nigga, the pallbearer’s inside

Adding up the money he would make if six niggas died

Playboy, it’s whatever, whenever, however you want it

Been on that other level, nigga, quick to severe opponents

So fuck the world, shit trick, me and my clique forever on it

They call us hustle gang vest, these youngsters caught up in the moment

You heard’a me, same nigga set up shop and hooked it with cookies that weighed

I got niggas that watch my figures, tryna murder me

Miss me with it, I’m SPC, playboy, since '93

This for the ballers and the geekers, the crawlers and the creepers

The 20 inch skaters, the park bench haters

Capping but you can’t fade us, bitch, you down in your gators

Slap a nigga for practice, bad actors major factors

These the niggas I started with (Now what?)

That SPC, best believe that we the hardest clique

Point Blank was richer with the crumbs before you got the bricks

I’m the one when I hold three trigger your face, I slap the bitch

I put our load on top of my load and I ran with it

The same shit you rap about hate to see me live it

Now who the fuck you was talking about in that rhyme you spit?

All that giggling shit, think a nigga ain’t listening to yo ass, boy

Give me some space before I slap you with my dick

You worse than a dry pussy bitch, can’t even get my finger wet, and yeah

Back in high school, I heard you was a punk

Always calling home, «Mama, mama, help, they tryna beat me up!»

I metamorphosize into a new advanced fully enhanced

Super brain hurricane against the grain, see futures at a glance

Take a chance with the hood professor but don’t try to wreck

Be 34 and rap opponents 30 styles and 30 dialects

No mouth popping if you ever say my clout dropping

Watch me run a thousand laps around your ass without stopping

Proceeding to rip a style, I verbally trip a while

And smile and whip a pile of hoes, hit ‘em, they flip a mile

You played with K-Rino, stayed with it for days

Made your face look like a grenade, hit it 400 ways

You holler, «Why me?»

I called his house, I knew he was home

His caller ID said, «Man, you better not pick up that phone»

Poets are prolific, proportioning, posing paralysis

Critical writer, verse wrote when existing didn’t exist

Crash the show and scared the coldest rhymesayers to death

Even the motherfucking microphone shit on itself

I’m with the hardest clique