[Intro]
Ugh
Yeah, yeah
Some of the good things that weed can do (Yeah, ha)
PSA
Let me start shooting 'em fucking commercials
(Jets in the house) Yeah
Man (Yeah)
Yeah, bitch

[Verse]
I'm so cold with it; the potency of the beat—
Is consistent with the fact that Mos did it
Prolific not shaken or stirred
In the presence of those n***as, herbs
They only after your bread—them fucking birds
You think they like your haircut? Fair enough
Live your life, partner
Guess I could keep them two cents in my pocket
Add that to these underground-rap dollars
Refused the majors and stayed real—I kept my promise
Rolled Bambús in the Bahamas, mama
It's either that or them strawberry coladas
Xbox web browser
Download a updated NBA roster
Play a eighty-two-game season
Condo full of snacks, Spitta not leaving
Off-brand muh'fuckers
Odd number, you are not even on my level
Write that sickness, my ink pen sneezing
Yancey Thigpen can't catch me sleeping
You air-hustling motherfucker, and I'm eating
Creeping with my side bitch, hope I don't get caught cheating
New Orleans this morning, New York in this evening
Squinting they eyes and shit, they can't see him
Fly in the hive, buzzing, them bugs can't be him
Illegible letters in my ledger, they can't read 'em
Smiling, money piling, I'm cheesing
Odometer broken, I ain't know that I was speeding
Fast living, sloe gin for these bitches
I got that game from my Pittsburgh n***a
SV Diablo, ninety-six, wings lift
Daniel-san, crane kick—wah!
[Outro: Mos Def]
You're the best around
You're the best around
You're the best around
You're the best