[Intro: Roc Marciano]
Uh, pimps in the motherfuckin' buildin'
Marc, baby, you already know what the fuck it is, n***a
We set the precedent out here, you can't
You gotta be kiddin' me, n***a
Knock it off, n***as following
Uh, follow me though

[Verse 1: Roc Marciano]
Yo, rubber burners in them Germans, we some earners
Earnest, we don't give a fuck, we some virgins
Versace shirt, Medusa head with the serpents, disturbing
The folks in the church was nervous
Spikes on the Louboutins like a sea urchin
You don't see my me networkin'
He's not a people person
I was speakin' on me but in third person
If violence hurts how we eatin', it defeats the purpose
Uh, whole cameras in the thirty clip
Pray your soul get to enter that pearly fence
Deals with the devil, Snoop with the Shirley Temps
Murder was the case they gave a pimp (murder was the case that they gave me)
Eventually n***as learned in the long run, your friends turn enemies
Little things is important
Got popped, went to court once
Since then, been on the run
N***as thought I was finished, I'm just warming it up
Uh
Once again, it's on
Pistols get drawn with no pencil point
Shot fish, shit talk the oriental joint
Thought it was civil 'til we kicked you in your groin
This shit is noise, I'm on steroids forever poised
Floyd Mayweather with the cheddar boy
This a different era
Ain't no missin' glass slippers given to Cinderellas
Bitches running my errands (Marc)
Fuck what you yellin'
N***as jealous and they feel us
If we ain't gelling, accept it and don't be desperate
N***as extra (extra)
Fuck, we next up
Rosebudd did its numbers
We doin' chest bumps
[Hook]
Condo shoppin' in Cabo, the condom broke
That don't mean that's my child though
Condo shoppin' in Cabo, the condom broke
That don't mean that's my child though

[Verse 2: Black Thought]
Ay yo
Every sports coat got to be bespoke
Keep a non-believer chokin' on cohiba smoke
Keep a wide receiver open like convenience stores
Am I a Henry Ford or the Lord? I'm either-or
These rappers is more weak, Sweeter than Rita Ora
Y'all whole fuck boy squad this shit ain't even for
Its for esteemed honorees, not the nominees
This shit is for the proper G's, not the minor leagues
Smellin' like a pot of greens is some kind of creed
I believe the jacket and slacks is [by Walid]
I achieved greatness, switchin' between faces
If ain't a Cartier on your sleeve, it seems naked
Dream chasing delirium, the criterion is from Senegal
The homie Nigerian, look
With the twelve gauge long beneath the black burka
The track murker give a fuck like a sex worker
It's a sad state of affairs, it's a tear-jerker
The duffel bag circa '95 Gurkha
Slaughter without borders, war in close quarters
Joke is on whoever spoke, for 'em it's post mortem
They prayed that the story they told could hold water
Better make it wait, sure to disobey direct orders
We faceless and move throughout forgotten spaces
The rooftops, alleys, vacant lots, and basements