Told collections they gon' have to come collect me
I ain't go in debt to play the games correctly
I ain't eat her whole cobbler for her to forget me
Tasting like mango, papaya and red bean
I ain't came to flex, I came to impress me
My shit sound like Moondog 'cept golly wog
Jaw full of London fog 'cept with gin involved
When I got the call that this is my job
Out in Oregon, kombucha in my organs
Rapping to a nigga in a state thats Porcelain
Shit felt like some good gushy, left me snoring
Niggas chasing labels when they could be touring
Scary niggas local when they could be foreign
I don't got no cohorts, produced by the score and retorts
play on any court, C-string stuck playing horse
Underground ain't the D-league its the discourse
Age of Pitchfork, rappers looking like big storks
Got the bag and the kids trading for our exports,
Blogs clamoring for all of our petty sports
Put the black pussy on the pedestal
Still pay us under the table, cheat us out our medical
Bitch I transcend it, niche smaller than a skittle
MC's twinning like Phil and Lil
That's on God!
That's on Mama!
That's on God!
That's on Mama! (x2)