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Yeah, as a kid growin' up in Brooklyn | My pops was a DJ, he had a bunch of records | Funk, jazz, rhythm and blues, soul, you know what I'm sayin'?
Yeah, as a kid growin' up in Brooklyn My pops was a DJ, he had a bunch of records Funk, jazz, rhythm and blues, soul, you know what I'm sayin'? There was this one gospel record I liked like, like Like holy moly, I might get some religion and leave you holy, holy Yeah, this rhyme is so fat, it's roly poly I give you intimate details so you can get to know me These corporate rappers like, "Why this dude pickin' on me?" You rap your way to the top but now it's gettin' lonely Kids is hungry and you lookin' like a steak from Nick & Tony's But don't nobody want your jewels 'cause your shit is phony Say word? Your shit is real? Damn, your shit is corny Rhymes turn a new page like Mark Foley And touch kids like when Larry Clark gave the part to Chloe Rest in peace to Harold Hunter, the greatest from New York Started out skatin' for Zoo York, word Hangin' out at The Gavin, I was very lucky To talk to Rash' once I got past Derek Dudley Got him on respiration, that's pre-Badu Bet you Garnett Reid got a Matt Doo tattoo Sometimes I feel like I'm drownin', I gotta tread water Head above the water, I always remember headquarters Heads up, eyes open, I got my mind focused I find hope inside a line, my rhymes define opus Sometimes hopeless people fill my thoughts with evil My record so hard it broke the needle At the Mixtape Awards niggaz act like they don't give a fuck though And disrespect the legacy of Justo What the blood claat? No, let the blood flow You ain't come to pay your respect, then what you come fo'? Too many good niggaz die, it's like a stop loss Hood niggaz ghetto like fried wings and hot sauce How you hard? The cops lettin' 50 shots off Baby Jay-Z's with the knockoff Scott Storch beat You are not Short, you are not Katt You're not a player or a pimp, money stop that Learn to master your speech and be eloquent Rappers keep peddlin' sweets, the beats weaker than gelatin We used to kick up dust, now we settlin' Rest in peace to Dilla, Weldon, we can't forget you Professor X and Proof we miss you, word Rest in peace to Shaka, 21 gun salute In the air like blak, blak, blak You're still here 'cause you're livin' through me You're like a gift God has given to me, what?
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