(Verse I)
I put my life into my compositions, all competition ceases to exist at the flick of my wrist/I’m ambidextrous, southpaw but right on my wit, one hand washes the other it’s a mutual split/I take it far to the left but right with a hit, just when you thought that I left, I’m right on my shit, feel me/I’m unorthodox, Roy Jones in a chicken coup, ya’ll niggas must of forgot I won’t conform like Hassidic Jews/slow it down, riding dirty on that chopped and screwed, shout out to Bun B, rest in peace to homey Screw and Pimp C too/ya’ll niggas ain’t forgotten, pour your Promethazine, crush up your Oxycotin/you know I always show respect and I made my own lane but still validate your steps/cause I’m from the city of the greatest where the b-boys break on cardboard like Dirty Vegas, come on...

(Hook)
I see you rapping but I don’t hear you saying much/I see you rapping but I don’t hear you saying much/I grind for it cause I don’t think I’ve made enough, feel me...

(Verse II)
The backdrop for these cinematic rhyme schemes, golden era, New York, Brooklyn, 1993/my son grew up with me, moved to ATL like Albert Daniels as Brooklyn when he played in ATL/we spoke briefly, he asked me how the city was, who got killed, which rapper’s generating the biggest buzz/initial thought was tell him I was coming up, how I did Shade 4-5 and I tore it up/but that ain’t enough to put in conversation, so I told him who died and avoided anything rap-related/he read my body language even through the phone and asked me how I was doing, was music coming along.../I said, “Slowly, but surely, you know how the game goes, still grinding trying to find the end to the rainbow.”/I felt bewildered, knowing he expected more, he responded reassuringly, “I know you poppin’ off. I know you heard the Exhibit’s with Just and Jay Elec and you tight you did it first but ain’t getting exposure yet. My nigga don’t fret, God gotta plan and when it’s ready to be bestowed it’ll fall into your hands, trust me!”

(Hook)

(Verse III)
Too many rappers, not enough people in NASA to forecast any natural disasters/dog, why you gassin’ him talent is self-service, always been a cocky nigga but never self-serving/catch swerving in something bumpin’ R U Still Down, can you niggas feel me I ain’t motherfuckin’ Dru Down/peace to Oakland though and all my girls at Roscoe’s with opened toes, who let the top back on the open road/Young Dro burning slow, existential Poe moving it live from The Truman Show/nothing is real in Pleasantville, a day in the life, complicated, see it ain’t that black and white/you see I’m public property these rap guys are making a mockery of this art that came from the heart, that came from the parks, that came from the Bronx, that came from New York/an ill nigga, real nigga, play ya part nigga...

(Hook)