[Skit]
"I thought about it the other day, I'm 27 and a half years old my guy. And I never left Brooklyn, left Brooklyn, left Brooklyn, left Brooklyn...
I’ve never been to Staten Island, I've never been to Long Island, never been to no Harlem. And hey man, can I keep it real with you now? I ain't tryin’ to leave. I'm never gonna leave. I ain't ever leaving Brooklyn!" [Laughter]

[Verse 1]
One autumn night I caught a flight to Jamaica to get away from all the stresses of life
And all the fights I had to break up
Brought the studio with me
I'm picky about the spots I rеcord in
Plus the drones, they got an angеl that's fallen [?]
I'm on the beach, where my bae definition of cupcake
And n***as hatin' them
My skin so dark, I look Jamaican
Awkwardly droppin patois in my casual conversation
On occasion getting further away from the frustrations
But so many of my people catch a tough break
Stressed like a n***a from New York with a gun case
Meanwhile I'm on the island cuttin’ dubplates
Smokin’ weed's more colorful than leaves fallin’ upstate
Been listenin' to Mac Miller's "Self Care"
But still can't keep my mind off of my people welfare
That’s when I throw on that Dead Prez, "Hell Yeah'
Headed to New York, ain't a better vibe elsewhere

[Chorus]
To write that shit, the real life shit
Got every system pumpin'
On mamas son, they love it
We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter
I'm fresher than a New York sling
It's so butter how we
Write that shit, the real life shit
Got every system pumpin'
On mamas son, they love us
We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter
I'm fresher than a New York sling
It's so butter how we
[Verse 2]
Goin' number 1 like Pete Rock, the soul brother
2020 bad money I'm runnin the whole summer
That's gold
It's the flow like no other
And they lovin' it, like LB and Joe Scudda
New Yorkers, we don't concern ourselves with the quorum
It's the home of hip hop, the anti-pop consortium
Where the cops let off 41 shots without warnin'
Kill 'em dead in the street and let the coroner sort 'em
Used to spray paint our name, gettin' up to get fame
Now our babies comin' out of the womb like, gang gang
Back in the day all of that bangin' was a Cali thing
You could tell the difference from the New York and the Cali slang
I love to write to the clangin' of the train
The kids playin on the swing
The braap of the gun play
The airhorn that tell Hasidics it's time to pray
The drummin' on Sundays in the park with the sun rays shine down
On the hallowed grounds where rap started at
My bars are like African artifacts over harder tracks
It started back when Phil Sims was a quarterback
Still drop and slap to give a young boy a heart attack
(Step up your game, son)
For the writers and the exciters
In between the Twin Towers like the Man on the Wire
For the New Yorkers who be drivin' even though the road be fuckin' up they tires
This the year we shuttin' down Rikers
[Chorus]
And I like that shit
The real life shit
Got every system pumpin'
On mamas son, they love it
We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter
I'm fresher than a New York sling
It's so butter how we
Write that shit, the real life shit
Got every system pumpin'
On mamas son, they love us
We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter
I'm fresher than a New York sling
It's so butter how we

(It's so gutter how we)

[Skit]

My pops's 60 and never got a driver's license, B. [laughter] My n***a—my n***a my father—my father been ridin' the train since fuckin' '72 n***a. [laughter]