[Verse] (00:43) An one man Mafioso on graveyard shift/ In this mob deep, you slobs eat what the graveyard left/ Over, it's over, missing your head and your shoulders/ It's bars over everything, sk**s appeal, need a chauffeur/ To carry me over, from flow to flow/ Bar-after-bar delivering blow after blow/ Like a dope dealer gettin' head, that's a blow for blow/ Hand on the Sharpie for this 16 that I wrote/ Present tense meaning write, for these lines leave a smoke/ Trail, don't inhale; see you in Hell if you fail/ To hold your breath long enough, tried to act hard & tough/ Till he became soft and got crumbled like a Dixie cup/ Shout out to the West Coast, over here's the Beast Coast/ This is the coast for them beasts, and we finna feast yo/ Tumbling weed growth, lil' homie we need those/ Trynna put a handle on weed laws so brothas can't breed more/ They rather prefer if we stuck with the criminal moniker/ No more doing what's right, cause they'll be more to offer us/ Better growth and achievements with a bigger establishment/ Trynna turn around the issues, but I guess they're not having it///////////// //////////////// //////////////// //////////////// ////////////////