[Verse 1: Jean Grae]
Let's begin: Miss Grae
The post-traumatic war symptom sufferer
The player, hand-bluffer, the shifty-eyed mother
Deep city strut-walker, trucker hat hater
Knuckle up a peddle rap pusher
Made veteran face-smusher
Rip out your pacemaker
Knock your brain data
With block fists 'til it spits out of your sockets
So unlogical, the prodigal daughter returns
With them horror comic comedy terms (You know you love it)
Squirm in your seats, let the ba** burn you to pieces
Frown 'til your face keeps all those permanent creases
Learned leash techniques so I keeps them all close
Then I burn all the straps, slack, and watch you toast
Drop on ya like "Oh Donna"'s playing "La Bomba," comma
Now your kin's wilin' like Ritchie Valen's mama drama
Picture me smiling—man, it's all in the words
I'm just playing, please don't take this serious
I'm just saying, come on
[Verse 2: Jean Grae]
Featherweight with a heavy tongue, eighty pounds
And it's fitted with napalm grenades with the pins out
I spit a round of ammo and spin, light candles
Dig holes manually or I hop to your family
You can't manage me, I'm Santana's song
"Black Magic Woman," half manic, half timebomb
Neurotic addicts blown—that alone explains that I'm wrong
I stay gone like missing kids in a basement with chains on
Face it—I'm always gonna lace it up well
Receive hate mail, then pray tell why your face swelled
I don a cape with a "JG" on it, the sleeves red
Three lead pieces that'll pop out of the sleeve net
(Best believe that) I mean what I say cause these letters spray
With a mean pimp lean, Jean—I'm a demon
"I know, she's so dreamy, look at her gleaming!"
n***a, I shine with no polish, uneven—it's just raw (See?)
[Verse 3: Jean Grae]
Despicable thoughts much bigger than yours
I think in broad-terms, long-term winnings of course
I figure long earnings:
Yachts and Porsches, houses, porches, backyards, pools and stay remorseless for this
Y'all think that I don't endorse it?
That I wanna stay broke, drinking water out the faucet?
Nope. That's where you're wrong
I just planned it different. Damn gifted
'Til all the up and ante shifted
I'm a nightmare, flipping the standards, rip it candid
Tipping the balance, one hand gripping the hammer
And dripping rancid tones. You're just a band of clones
I strip you down 'til you're living in abandoned homes
Plan long—you're up short like bandana tops
My plan stops when my kids' kids' nanna drops
Then my grandkids find your family—god damn thee
I'll quit when I sell y'all candy that can't see