Part 1 - New York City: Nov. 13, 1992
Ayo, get Frank the Butcher on the phone. Tell him it's in style to be a lyricist again. Tell him I'm fresh as fuck. Get FILA on the phone. Tell 'em I'm fresh as fuck. Let's collab
All these Larry Hoover comparisons
They all foolish, they untrue and they too common
Me? They'll probably mummify me
With my penis still erect like Tutankhamun
They say that I'm out of my noodle while I'm freestylin'
Cause I come off the roof with rhymin'
Make money very fast, so fast I gotta bury cash
I'm Nicky Barnes in Barneys
Wishin' I had 50 arms so I could carry bags
Ask around, ho, I'm lowkey wacko
Ask if I'm OG, I answer back like OG Maco
Niggas askin', "Why'd you did that underground album?"
I ask, "What you ask for?"
Matter of fact, so what? My style is art
I might drop this PRhyme shit, then say, "Fuck an album"
Start lunchin' and drop a couple cold cuts à la carte
I got a good life, man, we rich and they're broke
They get bread, the knot in my pocket the size of Dej Loaf
We live, we ride, them 850is
We love to call a pair of FILAs them FILAs
Old school, syllables, cadences, wordplay
Part 2 - New York City: Nov. 13, 2014
Underground cash, grassroots M6
White rag roof, the backlash of the fastest rapper's big enough
To double the size of the asscrack on Shaq Fu
Truth, spaz rap, sick with it, I spit shit in a class blackbooth
Head-to-toe clad in a Hazmat suit
You talk shit on the internet, then you disappear, hashtag poof
Bad back, gat bust, weird niggas be clapped up
And smeared all over the fuckin' atmosphere
And that means everything that you type in all caps must
Be clear from your laptop, screen, even your atmosfere
On the road to richs like G Rap
Except this road is made of golden roses and this is the victory lap
What I spit is so visually dope
That when they hear me they image me sober
But they picture the relapse
Your favorite rappers's least favorite rapper...
Wait, I'll elaborate
I'm the reason why their release date is backed