A mere fragmentation, chip off the old block
With the insulated tubing of a football sock, with stripes being levels of achievement
Rolling up my sleeves, went and tried to get mine
This I found, fine: that I write rhymes for days; please, no praise
The latest craze is what's leaking from the deacon speaking freaking words like the Miami nightclub
What's all the hubbub, Bub?
Got all the bits and particles of my articles, piece in the puzzle
Searching for the reason to guzzle, drinking juice that ain't theirs
Cold as ice from my stares
Fein broken-hearted fit in non-members credit card
They weigh in, swearing they're gonna stay in

With my spiritual blessings I'm a spendthrift not a tightwad
Keeping pressure off my chest, peaceful sleeping like "Goodnight God,"
And slumber-chopping, lumbar-propelled, posture-crushing mainframe
Playing brain games to maintain, perpetuate the same thing
We are the world, we are the children
Throw your hands to the ceiling
These fragmentations with high standards, aspirations
Using vocal complications, keeping on-air deceit
Thinking to yourself, "They're so unique,"
Keep your mouth shut, you better not speak 'til my entire satieties satisfied society
My variety is gaining notoriety

Ah, that was "Fragmentation" on your FM dial - W. F. R. A. G
Show me that emcee coming closer in comparison
Embarrassing himself, trying to stand within my sphere with metaphoric grind or fantasised rhymes
Trapped in the biz of making hits with greatest misses
I'm a lyricist of past and current times, in multitudes hearing "Mental,"
Fools salute Christian complications in the way I administer medication
Calls at congregations to collapse the detonation
Facing the fragmentation of breaking down of spirit by supernatural chemicals, reaction to my lyrics
How do you want it? East, north, west, or south?
And let this rhythm see from Tennessee's beat gang
They turned you out

18 Avenue, South Side, this style was compiled
A reminder - what you facing is simply bonafide Southern pride
Hails from Jacksonville, Florida, to Douglas, Georgia, to Birmingham, Alabama
Now Deville I reside
Some may say this style is simplistic; they got it twisted, they missed it
Though they may dis it, there's millions in ghettos listening
Tasting my vocal mystic, my flavours come in linguistics

My last part of a song ya'll might find odd
I'm here under the assumption that some of y'all might find God

That's the only reason Grits loads clips and shoot verses: to further the kingdom and give the ode
You guys in hearses
Shot breeze, now outing thousand five from the beginning
The beat will fade out, but first you'll hear it thinning
Complete thought is needed to follow this mental poetry
Three dimensional images appeal close to spiritually if you're hearing me, not with your ears but in your heart
Make connections with proper grounding, your chest is pounding from these fragmentated-sounding, compound, round elements
Natural-born thrillers wrought in Oliver Stone flicks