Chorus: While my mama's in the kitchen cooking chicken
Im sitting at the table trying to make the world different
Muhf**a I wrote this. Muhf**a I wrote this (2x)
Shades over my eyelids the ghetto is excursioned
Searching for my soul for myself the better version
Have you seen ‘em both? Better tell ‘em that I'm lookin'
This is food for thought I am the chef who is cookin'
Watch me dish it out everybody get ya plate
n***as scream 100 to keep it they hesitate
Who wanna bet us that we don't touch lettuce?
I hustle with a drive that'll make UBER jealous
Forever I'm inclined to touch your body spirit mind
See we're cut from different cloth who did your stitches and design?
I'm dressing for success and my Louie is Vutton
Got Franklins in my jeans but only f**in' with the dimes
There's nothing to discuss if you judge without a gavel
‘Cause what I have in store your opinion holds no value
I'm a good man with vices between Satans and Christs
Seen my first dead body before I had a license
Beaten by police way before 11th grade
If you ain't trying to learn get the f** outta my way
Not entertainment, truth this confession not a booth
A grown a** me was very scared of my youth
And no it's not excuse see my pain is my muse
I share it with my fans who understand and feel amused
We're differently the same where s**, art and dope meet
The ghetto or the suburbs my fans live on Hope Street
Repeat Chorus (2x)