| «Hey dis
|
| C’est pas vrai, dis
|
| Pince-moi, dis (Twofifteen)
|
| C’est comme si je n’avais jamais dansé avant»
|
| Yo, the big wheel keep turnin' like Ike’s and Anna Mae’s
|
| The church kitchen hustlin' dinners every Saturday
|
| Pull over, let me grab a plate, I tend to gravitate
|
| Towards how fish dinners from a styrofoam platter taste
|
| My granddaddy sported plaid Donny Hathaways
|
| Hustlin' for everything we had 'til he passed away
|
| When I would ask him 'bout what path to take
|
| He used to laugh and say, «No man is an island but I’m a castaway»
|
| Casualties, I seen 'em like the French Foreign Legion
|
| On the streets, they used to carry out bizarre procedures
|
| In jean jackets and Jabbar Adidas
|
| Back when local R&B was just as soulful as orthopedics
|
| Me and my man twistin' up some reefer and wishin'
|
| We knew all the town hitmen in the likes of Sam Christian
|
| On the edge of existence, man, listen
|
| Understand, respect and fear was the all-American ambition
|
| For badass kids in the laundromat, foldin' a load
|
| Well lo and behold, a whole 'nother fork in the road
|
| My wish for them is that the truth is eventually told
|
| Out on the corner, where whatever you can sell is sold
|
| I heard murder ran this vast, deserted land
|
| Since back when Burning Man was blacks in Birmingham
|
| Before the presidential election diversion scam
|
| Matter fact, before they clapped Franz Ferdinand
|
| You gossip on Jay and Beyoncé or Kim and Kanye
|
| But keep risin' to the top, what my mind say
|
| Picture my daughter drinkin' water where the sign
|
| Say, «For colored girls,» I ain’t talkin' Ntozake Shange
|
| Who said it’s Senegal? |
| I was a king in general
|
| Rich in every resource, precious metal and mineral
|
| Before the devil entered the land of the plentiful
|
| With that Jamaican funk, gotta get it into who
|
| For generations under God, indivisible
|
| Psych ward patients, vampires in a interview
|
| Become institutionalized, what a nigga do
|
| But what we had to do to survive, none of them could do
|
| Who the technical culprit? |
| I don’t mess with no vultures
|
| I’m electrical voltage, not the regular dosage
|
| Too obsessive compulsive, I’m a fuckin' explosive
|
| Mixed message in a bottle, I left with the postman
|
| I’m that arachnophobia, black petroleum
|
| Ceremoniously holy when at the podium
|
| Even though it’s hotter than weapons-grade plutonium
|
| The people tryna check for the return of the Ichiban
|
| Obi-Wan, universe, you owe me one solid
|
| My homie Gonzalez, only know gun violence
|
| On the corner where they probably on they 21 Savage
|
| Catch two in your cabbage, Young Cesar Chavez
|
| Division one, yo, wait a min', where we get our rhythm from?
|
| Continuum, still swingin' like a pendulum
|
| Here the women come, sing it like Sarah Vaughan
|
| Heard 9th up in a house from North Carilon'
|
| Ain’t no mannequin challenge, but y’all paralyzed
|
| It’s gettin' cold outside, a word from the wise
|
| Y’all niggas better bundle up
|
| But I bet it be a hotter summer, not for nothin'
|
| Yo, the cops get down, especially when it come to us
|
| Nigga better be a Rockefeller
|
| Get that out your pocket fella, sang acapella
|
| Ain’t a damn thing really changed as far as I can tell it
|
| Another soul with no name, the helicopters hunted
|
| Look like a couple of days before the doctor comin'
|
| But that’s my little cousin, watch him for me
|
| I think the world tryna sock it to me
|
| It kinda feel like everything is out of pocket for me
|
| Who keep it a hundred when everything’s partial?
|
| Dignity and sanity is what the game cost you
|
| Wake up to the paddles on your chest, we had lost you
|
| I’m just paintin' a picture like Kerry James Marshall
|
| I’m just takin' a picture like Carrie Mae Weems
|
| So smile and say cheese, we in 2018
|
| In a pyramid scheme, nightmares and day dreams
|
| From the runaway slave to a modern day king
|
| «Hey dis
|
| C’est pas vrai, dis
|
| Pince-moi, dis
|
| C’est comme si je n’avais jamais dansé avant» |