It's the amba**ador, of rap's ma**acre
Preserved with my chest poked out
Like I just walked out of Attica, swerve
Homie, I ain't mad at ya
Do what you do
Sick of them tight a** jeans
But I don't want to bat at ya
Stay in my lane, me and fame, the antidote
And oh gee
Damn, double visions of Earl Manigo
Not just a hot song, not just a sick quote
Not just your local sh**, not just above dope, MO