[Intro]
(Woah, turn it up, woah!) (Now you may not dig this bruh, but dig this!)
[Verse 1: Coin Locker Kid]
Dig it? Probably do, I figured, if you didn't I would kick in gear until you get wit it
Ya wig split it, trust me it's a good thing
Quakers in the place with all the bass we could bring
Make ya hood sing the praises that are off beat, like it's all meat, like what?
I saw heat, line in the streets, so discreet so I ate it, tasted like a rapper with the raps half jaded
Please don't say it, if you're faded simply back away from the microphone, it's well known that back in the day, in the beginning, if you have something to say, then you say it, don't play
And afterwards don't stay, the Quakers are [?] after party
As soon as I spat, I go back to the flat, create another flow to bum-rush another show, and leather space and time
Dum-dum, hush, I'm boutta blow ya face with rhymes over the hissing and popping of the vinyl crackle, under the break, my rhymes deep like Finnegan's weight[wake]?, fault lines after the quake, like Murakami, and if you didn't get it maybe you should ask your mommy, like, listen, this sound like Earth Rot, sounds like your sampling, the sample is hot
Right off the turn table, straight into the S B, and it burns the cable, and the aftermath is messy, like hell is 'round the corner where I shelter, so if ya girly wanna visit, no, I'll melt her
The second I felt fur, I made it through the magic door, it's tragic, but the Hop's hardly Hip anymore
Like keep a real black, the [shack]?, supermarket fucking music, you're better off sellin' crack
Maybe you'll rap about it, like little Cuban links, experience to show you what a true man thinks, in the beginning, and that's good for your health, but later on in life, where is yourself?