Yeah, as a kid growin up in Brooklyn, my pops was a DJ   He had a bunch of records - funk, jazz, rhythm and blues, soul   There was this one gospel record I liked like, like      Like holy moly, I might get some religion and leave you holy holy   Yeah, this rhyme is so fat it's roly poly   I give you intimate details so you can get to know me   These corporate rappers like "Why this dude pickin on me?"   You rap your way to the top, but now it's gettin lonely   Kids is hungry and you lookin like a steak from Nick & Tony's   But don't nobody want your jewels, cause your shit is phony   Say word? Your shit is real?! Damn, your shit is corny   My rhymes turn a new page like Mark Foley   And touch kids like when Larry Clark gave the part to Chloe   Rest in peace to Harold Hunter, the greatest from NEWWW YAWK   Started out skatin for Zoo York   Word hangin out at The Gavin, I was very lucky   To talk to Rash' once I got past Derek Dudley   Got him on "Respiration", that's pre-Badu   Bet you Garnett Reid got a Matt Doo tattoo   Sometimes I feel like I'm drownin I gotta tread water   Head above the water I always remember Headquarters   Heads up, eyes open, I got my mind focused   I find hope inside a line, my rhymes define opus   Sometimes hopeless people, fill my thoughts with evil   My record so hard it broke the needle   At the Mixtape Awards niggaz act like they don't give a fuck though   And disrespect the legacy of Justo   What the blood clot? No, let the blood flow   You ain't come to pay your respect, then what you come fo'?   Too many good niggaz die, it's like a stop loss   Hood niggaz ghetto like fried wings and hot sauce   How you hard? The cops lettin 50 shots off   Baby Jay-Z's with the knockoff Scott Storch beat   You are not Short, you are not Katt   You're not a player or a pimp, money stop that   Learn to master your speech and be eloquent   Rappers keep peddlin sweets, the beats weaker than gelatin   We used to kick up dust, now we settlin   Rest in peace to Dilla, Weldon, we can't forget you   Professor X and Proof we miss you, word   Rest in peace to Shaka, twenty one gun salute   In the air like "BLAKA BLAKA BLAKA"      You're still here cause you're livin through me   You're like a gift God has given to me   Uh, uh, uh, what?