Verse 1

It was a summer mornin' at the age of eighteen
I'll start the story in the shower singin' Microphone Fiend
Tryna figure my routine for the day
There's mad things to do with no delay
In preparation for this jam around the way
I'm steppin' out the shower
Crossin' out the calender
Pickin' out the afro and pullin' out the gear
I hear the same sounds every mornin'
Sports centre the traffic
Your mom dukes screamin' in my ear
Dipped, yet my thoughts slip
Thinkin' that my plans just barely coincide with my money clip
But get a grip cos by the end of the day, bro
Your pockets'll be a-ight, even before the crowd says 'a-yo! '
I jet up to Lex, take the 6 to the are
My journey wouldn't feel as far if I had a car
5-O was there, so I paid my fare
But I didn't care 'til he gave a glare, who you tryna scare?
I'm passin' flyers to a crew of fly young sisters
A chicken from my past is actin' crab, so I had to diss her
My head bops and my fingers pops 'til I reach my stop
Then I mush my way through to the record shop