| Yo, at night time, reflection from the mural
|
| Federal bureau with ikes, did it all our lives
|
| We Swiss bankers, cream making in Australia
|
| Floss whales, we live, men, plus the son of the Mahalias
|
| Gold plated horse with the wooden face, catch me up grace
|
| Iceberg blanket, Queen Cheeba sheets
|
| The Giganti’s, paparazzi nazi, elbow money
|
| Invisible glaciers, laying over rastas
|
| Let the stars know, the crescent is the blessing
|
| We came here to show and prove, make moves, for every dollar in the groove
|
| Rhymes that’s imported, wore platinum kitchens and shit
|
| Niggas gave bitches, most got extorted
|
| Yo, aqua swiss iceberg wrist, the chocolate swiss miss
|
| Love the Spanish kid, with the Starburst twist
|
| Marvelous, with the '59, 50 fitteds, matching the kicks
|
| That’s crispier than Saint Nicolas fish
|
| Do take, niggas slipping the disk, Wop and Rae world premiere shit
|
| Like Sermon and Smith, homey, my sermom is swift
|
| I got them powerful verse, that if
|
| This was a church, the’ll give a cripple person a lift
|
| And now he crip walking, I ain’t just talking
|
| I do this thing often, ask Kenyon Martin
|
| Last week, I gave his chain a bone
|
| And told him, take this with you to Boston (the kid’s awesome)
|
| From every borough to borough, every castle to castle
|
| We connect, put it down, and we ask you
|
| Real niggas rapidly past you, mumbling, come on
|
| Standing right in front of the building, son, nigga, you might die
|
| Yo, I came across the Verrazano, to polly with Mr. Polly, himself
|
| Plus I need a pair of wally’s with the cheddar melt
|
| Goat snake skin to coincide with the belt
|
| It’s doe or die, baby, like Sosa, hold your penny up high
|
| Aiyo, inkless colorless Aston, toast, nigga, post
|
| One of the finest made taylors to sow
|
| My medicine’s growth, young popes, greatest of all time
|
| Spoke, who drove off, had sixty horses on post
|
| It’s automatic magic, thirty kangols
|
| Understand, fabric spray at faggots, close
|
| The legacy’s dying, fakers approach, hit him with the hater soap
|
| Clap at your gators and snatch your hoe
|
| It’s the 2 double 0 3, version of the Cold Crush
|
| And Force MC’s, I’m bout to force mc’s
|
| To get their weight up, yo Rae, I’m a DJ, and I’m still telling
|
| Rap cats, to step they game up, ain’t that some shit, playa?
|
| Hahaha, yeah bulletproof armor tank shit, nigga
|
| P-9 material only, real niggas, Sing Sing style
|
| Word up |