| Now this sounds like something that the kids
|
| From the West Coast that jock the East Coast would like
|
| So I guess that means that the kids from West
|
| That jock the East Coast now jock me, psyche
|
| How they all wanna sound like they from Detroit
|
| If you ain’t dope, homeboy, then what’s the point?
|
| You ain’t breaking no ground, you ain’t pushing no limits
|
| Tryna shop yo deal off your mixtape image, ha
|
| Fool, I write like Brian Michael Bendis
|
| Impact left on the game: tremendous
|
| No 12 inches, knowing nothing 'bout the game
|
| Spitting freestyles and bob just to get fame
|
| I’m not bitter, just a little nostalgic
|
| ‘Cause these MC’s surviving '93? |
| I doubt it
|
| The name Murs but your girl call me hers
|
| And I’m out this bitch with PH
|
| I’m getting
|
| I wanna go to where the sun rises
|
| In the morning
|
| And say it ain’t the same
|
| Where the sun stands
|
| And where I’m going
|
| Now this sounds like something that them kids
|
| From the East Coast that sweat the West Coast would like
|
| So I guess that means that them kids from the East
|
| That’s what the West now sweat means (right)
|
| Everybody is a hipster—even the thugs now
|
| They rocking technicolor flags—this shit is bugged out
|
| I stay true to who I am and won’t change
|
| While metrosexual MC’s is F’ing up the game
|
| Y’all lame. |
| My aim is precise at y’all careers (say something)
|
| I ride through your town like Paul Revere
|
| All adhere to my verse while I’m spitting
|
| My talent’s in a box; |
| yours doesn’t fit in
|
| On some Hulk Hogan shit, I ate my vitamins
|
| Deep like Leviathan, creeping through Ireland
|
| Tryna win and get gold nuggets like Iverson
|
| PH and Murs—shut the game down, try again
|
| I wanna take you to
|
| Over to where the sun sets
|
| In the evening
|
| Looking for something different
|
| In my life
|
| So I’m leaving, leaving
|
| So ready to go wrong
|
| And I’m leaving
|
| Right now |