Sell Me This Pen

("Sell me this pen") Run through the wringer with my bros Can't even count the years in this game on my fingers and my toes I don't get open dancing on stage, I bring it to a close Make a sandwich out of my knuckles and bring it to your nose Mink black, the link Turkish I wasn't randomly selected, I was chose to serve a purpose On many levels, you still scratching the surface Machine's working, I'm wrapping packages for purchase Speed in a German auto, not with the frivolous convo I'm in a drop rocking a hooded poncho Talking out your ass, something I put my foot in pronto Not the GOAT, but the way I float, it got my name put in the convo Codename: Spy Hunter, I'm fly for the summer Pockets thick like 22 plied lumber Make a spectacle, observe me while I'm doing my numbers Fadeaways with the tongue out when I'm shooting my jumpers Fuck, bigger picture, if I rhyme, it's just coincidence These are God's words given to my brain on top of instruments Filtered through a brush, so when I paint it's never settling It's reggae roots, rock, or watch Roots rock "Adrenaline" Fuck the rhetoric of any lies attached to me Assassinate my character with rumors and the blasphemy Truth's crushed to the earth and then it rises While the working late doctor working late with no surprises I sell 'em stories, I don't tell 'em the end Only person in this building who could sell 'em this pen (Sell me this pen) Say it slow one time and never say it again 'Cause your day might, and you never know when This my shot, no chase Either get briefed to the Evidence or there ain't no case Still rock it off my hand so there ain't no trace I've been around the planet but there ain't no place Make sure the shit is for real, the woodgrain is Stradivari, Venice Chenille We'll push caine to cash and carry, niggas was ill Make sure the visit was healed I put pain in every pad, we been in appeal My bookbag was axillary, niggas could tell Wrist is concealed, riches on top of riches, membership dues We owe a lot of niggas venison til Kind of fit link is from Nigerian grills I keep a plantain in back of the coupe Bullets ta-ting like the grand wizard, spit a thing at your canoot Chewing tobacco, raw lavish is loose Bullets for Babylon, babbling rules 365 donts, 249 patented moves Food la bouche, it's maize in your mouth with horse radish and goose The poor house is salt, crackers, and soup I'm Munchausen on rappers for juice—where is your proof? Like you could fuck with all of that in the booth I put professors on sabbatical too I put some ketchup on a rapper, little peppercorn ranch and it's "Mmm" My bishop ran up on your castle in slough, Ravishing Rude Some eucharist was on his hat in a cube The hat flew, his ex let out the crack for fast food ("I'm wondering whether or not to go to France next week")