Apathy ft. Punchline, Wordsworth, A.L. (All Lyrics), Wiseguy, and Gaston - “The Big Hurt (Unreleased Demo Version)”
[Emcee(s): Punchline, Wordsworth, A.L. (All Lyrics), Wiseguy, Gaston, and Apathy]
[Producer(s): Al “T” McLaran]

[Verse 1: Punchline and Wordsworth]
I know
This girl Tijuana, she get hot like a sauna
She give good head and like n***as to piss on her
Chills on the corner, twists marijuana
My man used to flaunt her, hit it, he’s a goner
Strip club performer that turned informer
Told her all the shit she did in the past to haunt her. Yo, yo, we’re
Not lying, your honor. Death before dishonor
Apologies to my ex. I left her for her momma
Too many labels, no brand, complain about commercial-paid
Programs when they hold hands and play slow jams
Demos? If I don’t like what you rapped on it
Then I gave it to Punch with a copy of this track on it
On-point and ready, two sips of Henny
Had your girl pulling Striptease like Demi
The way she fake an orgasm, she should get an Emmy
Sex many, lap-dance for a penny
For those that envy, squeeze ‘til I’m empty
When I come through, talk under your breath like Kenny. I ain’t
Got a penny, hardly ever dress up, peeping Flo-Jo
Run track just to see her breasts jump
Tell women it’s about the mind—the line works
You ugly, you gotta check if they’re blind first
Cyphers in circles clockwise and set curfews
If I’m wack, I’m just joining you in a little role reversal
[Verse 2: A.L. (All Lyrics)]
Ain’t that
A bitch how hip hop died and became so redundant?
I’m here to make a switch as America’s Most Wanted
Get out the cypher fast, you won’t survive or last. You try
To blast, I’ll make you crash into ass ‘cause you fiberglass
My father passed. Been ill since a sonogram
I’m seeing n***as but can’t feel ‘em like a hologram
With hotter jams, raising hands like a stick-up
I got a lot of plans in full-gear like a pickup
No remorse, of course, I don’t care if you have kids
Bring your written shit, kid. I’ll take you out with my ad-libs
And I’m out for the cash, seeing more than a check placed. After
I rock a show, the whole crowd’s in need of a neck brace
The best of the best, y’all could call me The Last Dragon. I’m being
Modest right now—just imagine when I’m bragging, n***a

[Verse 3: Wiseguy]
Now presenting the award for The Best Lyricist
And the winner is… (Wiseguy!) no need to even finish it
The definitive answer’s the n***a with raps to capture
The mind of rappers ‘til the final chapter
You’re mesmerized by every line every time
Whenever I rhyme, I got your death on my mind. The deadliest
Rhymes do work when put to the task. I’ll need
A footbath after putting my foot up your ass through your
Drawn-ass basics, I’ll put my Asics so far up
Your anus, my laces’ll get caught in your braces
The taste of defeat—ain’t that sweet?—when you’re
Tasting my feet as they break through your teeth
[Verse 4: Gaston]
From New York to Connecticut, it gets no better than this
Six of the deadliest emcees to ever exist. Yeah
I’m prejudiced—I just hate a wack emcee
But fact is he hates me too ‘cause he’s no match for me
I’m real, not factory-sealed, no label manufactured me
I don’t come with no guarantee. Battle me? It’s at
Your own risk. Most opponents know this: you don’t mess
With Gaston, get a good old, down-home, old-fashioned ass-whipping
Cats licking their wounds, sitting in their rooms, cursing my
Existence ‘cause my freestyle’ll burn all your writtens, others
Quitting, but you’re persistent, still kicking wack
Rhyme after wack rhyme—at least you’re consistent, but I’m
Consistently efficient. Brothers wishing they could fit in my position
But I’ma cancel your subscription to living. Thanks for listening

[Verse 5: Apathy]
Specifically horrific, my physics are quantum
When I stomp ‘em. Y’all are on the dick like a condom
I melt to radiate your latex, aviate around
The apex of a mountain, phonetic fountain, I’m spouting
Sporadic, raps automatically patterned after Apathy
Shattered the ring around Saturn, you’re saddened due to tragedy
Foes take a body count of all the fatalities
Flawless victory, the rawest lyrically, the epitome
Of puncturing punks’ jugulars for jacking shit I’m rapping, I’m packing
Accurate raps, immaculate compared to wacker shit
You half-assed rappers spit. I’m rapid-fire, expiring
Like electrical live wires, I’m tiring
Liars with facts, I’m liver with raps, I’m tire on tracks
I’ll grab the mic, and you’ll never get your cypher back
Lyrics still control my verse like pills
Control birth, still not the run-of-the-mill
I phonetically kill, rappers better be still. When I
Embedded raps in grills, they said I’m incredibly ill
I trample over beats and samples like feet in sandals
On sand where camels’ll cross ample distance in
The Desert of Arabian, Homo sapien cannibal
Lighting it like a flammable candle, handles on mechanical
Guillotines I’m moving three inches vertically
Decapitating those foes who oppose me verbally