Lyrics:
and Jimmy Smith up on the organ
Gene Russell, the artist symbol of Chicago
Inivators like Michael White push out the Cal Tjader
Classic shit like Weather
the wide angle zoom
Trying to overstand my funk tunes
Coming soon, so chill, don't stress The Creator
I'll kick the funk loop from here to Cal Tjader
tunes
Coming soon, so chill
Don't stress The Creator
I'll kick the funk loop from
Here to Cal Tjader and cross the fader
And pack the lines on my paper
language that managed to let their hands speak
To peeps that showed love but not all felt this rhyme sayer
Non believers, killing vibes like Cal Tjader
Cause
shops
Screamin they love the album,
and then get near ten thousand when the next one drop
Haters try to deny the funk, but affected by the bong
They
friends down
Until ya family up"
If I bring the fish by they cookin'
It's a fish fry
My friends make the fish fly but
They ain't playin' Candy Crush
I don't
Thratt 187 its a homicide
She said Buks scroll up and buy my premium
I told her stream the album hoe..this gas I'm kickin premium
Mommy that's the rapper
of a master
You never thought you'd be bodied by a bastard
A bachelor who backspin on breakbeats
Break necks of broke souls who hate me
Hate he? you can't
an album that'll put a smile on Malcolm
Make Martin Luther tell God I'm the future for Heaven's talent
No tarot card reading; I'm foreseeing you niggas
masons
Pregnant teens give birth to intelligent gangsters they daddies faceless
Play this, by ya stomach, let my words massage it and rub it
I'll be his
bitch would
But you niggas too weak, but just give me 2 weeks
And I'm good
I'll make an album that'll put a smile on Malcolm
Make Martin Luther tell
But still shorty wild
Turned on by forty cals
Was young never saw me wild, clutch Robert Horry style
No wonder why I picked up triggers to beef
I
Nah
Your about to hear an album
Made by someone
That's got absolutely no musical talent
Get ready
Yeah the fuck do you want man?
The albums finished
my life
By trick or treat
My album drops in your sack
I speak freely
Fuck all these dumb broad
Whorey females creepin on my shit
Can’t call me
Do I gotta explain
Why Y'all songs be plain
18 nd I'm on my second car while y'all hoes getting by via train
How could you not see
All my money
rap-rock
Flipping past the bin for Limp Bizkit
Kept seeing this other band right next to it
A band by the name of Linkin Park
Graffiti street soldier
But still shorty wild
Turned on by forty cals
Was young never saw me wild, clutch Robert Horry style
No wonder why I picked up triggers to beef
I
flow
Y'all know I-I go
Spitting these flames like I was a psycho
On a bike, with a 45 driving by yo
Kindergarten class, shit come out my ass
With
deficit
How def is it?
Even when I'm filthy I'm not the feel guilty type
When the Cal see em
Bet you black is turning milky white
This ain't a title fight
I
meaning not cooked
These fake rappers heads are down
'Cause in the face of KRS they do not look
.40 cal' style, ram-pam-pam like big drums
When I heat
the photos
And I don't really like how
I'm treated by these people, Uh
Feel like Walter White
Shave my head and I go evil
Don't look up, don't look down
I just
out here in my dojo, I know how to add kicks
I made my whole album solo, y'all can't call me average
I'm always on the go-go, y'all can't grasp this
damn
I’m not sorry to get vulgar
I’m losin’ all the fucks I have to give as I get older
How I make an album just by cleaning out a folder?
I hope to go
Ha ha ha ha hah, I'm laughing with my mobb
While you remained confused by me
The Prodigy
You put your verse I put my verse in
We see who really
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