Artist: J.R. Writer 
Album:  Writers Block Vol 2
Song:   Call My Bluff Freestyle
Typed by: LeShea
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You know how poppi play rock display that will make tsunami waves.
Eight karots sitting in my Bugabi shades.
Like "Hi anus. I'm famous, lame." 
A player with a deaf game, I hit them hoes with sign language.
Walk in the bitch. Flossin' and shit. Point to the chick, point to the
door then point to the whip.
Open the door, point her to sit. Drive off, point to her lips then
point to my dick, shit!
Silly! Homey I'm that niggi.
Whoa the don hold alarm, soldier come and get me. 
Oh it be a pity when i throw you in the lake.
Won't be running no teeth, but be floating out the city.
This is history. Take a look I'm glicery.
You shop for your gear. I get that shit shipped to me. (stupid)
It ain't a mystery, I say a line you think is hot, you take the line
and switch the plot. I call that there a clippery. (stop bitin)
I'm that nigga B. You couldn't tell me diddly (squat!)
These Airs yea, custom made from Italy.
Like regardless, my footwear's retarded.
See another nigga wear them, Imma put 'em in the garbage.
I sit in the shade like nigga I'm paid.
Just finished blowin' down a clip full of haze.
Clips and grenades, this a parade.
I'm nicer than you now, Picture when I get to your age.
I'm the answer, you're a clone. 
You'll be answering the holmes (me!)
Or just another assistant answering my phone. (hello)
You dogs are pucks. You all get plucked.
Your phone plan ain't big enough to call my bluff. 
Holla! Stupid!