Classic rap lyrics about life, love, money and more.
Nothing’s been the same since they dropped ‘Control’
And tucked a sensitive rapper back in his pajama clothes.
Ha-ha! Joke’s on you, high-five, I’m bulletproof,
Your shit’ll never penetrate.
Pin the tail on the donkey, boy you been a fake.
Every time I write these words they become a taboo,
Making sure my punctuation curve, every letter here’s true,
Living my life in the margin, and that metaphor was proof.
What is competition? I’m tryna raise the bar high,
Who tryna jump and get it? You better off tryna skydive
Out the exit window of 5 G5’s with 5 grand
With your granddad as the pilot he drunk as fuck tryna land
With the hand full of arthritis and popping prosthetic leg
Bumpin Pac in the cockpit so the shit that pops in his head
Is an option of violence, someone heard the stewardess said
That your parachute is a latex condom hooked to a thread.
I’ve seen niggas transform like villain Decepticons,
Mollies’ll prolly turn these niggas to fuckin’ Lindsay Lohan.
A bunch of rich ass white girls lookin’ for parties,
Playin with Barbies, wreck the Porsche before you give ‘em the car key.
Her dreams hold Versace,
She fall for Armani…
Only deal with rich niggas,
Fuck you and Mitt Romney.
I live this life at a pace that anyone can go.
Know your place, and dedicate your role
…To the faith that you’ll die alone
Look inside my soul and you can find gold and maybe get rich.
Look inside of your soul and you can find out it never exists…
Imagine Rock up in the projects where them niggas pick your pockets,
Santa Claus don’t miss them stockings, liquor spilling, pistols popping,
Baking soda Yola whipping, ain’t no turkey on Thanksgiving,
My homeboy just domed a nigga, I just hope the Lord forgive him.
Let bygones be bygones…but where I’m from,
We buy guns and more guns, to give to the young.
We all seem to stumble, planning our own demise,
Getting the big picture, and making it wallet-sized.
The sky is falling, the wind is calling,
Stand for something, or die in the morning.
Everybody want to talk about who this and who that,
Who the realest and who wack, or who white or who black.
Critics want to mention that they miss when hip hop was rappin’…
Motherfucker, if you did, then Killer Mike’d be platinum.
Everybody looking at you crazy,
What you gon’ do?
Lift up your head and keep moving,
Or let the paranoia haunt you?
And I’m not sure why I’m infatuated with death,
My imagination is surely an aggravation of threats…
Maybe cause I’m a dreamer, and sleep is the cousin of death,
Really stuck in the scheme of wondering when I’mma rest.
You don’t really get why I’m so pissed?
Understand this:
I’m an artist, and I’m sensitive about my shit.