[Verse 1: Sir Michael Rocks]
The fat rap captain Primetimes with this draft
With way more than two things that match in my cabinet
What's that?
Who said that bomb rapping is lob shit
It's I, the Mike, that's really about it
No shit, Sherlock it's all Glocks with the hands
Nah dog this is ours, n***a watch where you stand
We see you tryna do what we do 'fore we can
Yo, it's cool though, we be like twenty steps ahead man
Oy vey sorbet yogurt more face
Build a days where it's cold outside for no reason
It's a hole in the ozone layer
Zips and jacket Rare Patry is everywhere
Like it's in season
There's nothing that compare to the different pairs
I copped three boxes and there I was shopping
Those cold minds steaming out the microwave bottom
Bop it, opting out a contract bribing

[Verse 2: Chuck Inglish]
I'm swerving downtown, time to get me a wristwatch
Now I'm outside picking nuggets out the Ziploc
In your girl's crib, I don't know how to pick box
You fucking with the tip top, baby
And it's booming, bouncing in the trap going ham
I'm a Mayweather jab, you a slap on the hand
Bitch ass n***a, bag full of sand
Now dust yourself off before I slap you again
I win in SL500 Benz, big fan of the Cartier lense
Ay, picking up the liters of them [?]
You attract bomb hoes, we attract many keepers
Keef sprinkled on that blunt like paprika
Blame it on the reefer, the league like FIFA
We running through that grass, charge it to the Visa
ATM credits on the phone with the people
(phone with the people) x 8

[Outro: Chuck Inglish]
You fucking with the tip top baby
(The tip top, baby) x 4