It’s the six-ring champ, I might as well just keep it candid
I pull shots and make off just like a bandit
I pop off, they get lost and end up stranded
I rock Nikes and rock mics, you know the canvas
Miami nights, I squeeze and lemons drop
It’s the shot clock king, I put points up, say, “Bismillah”
The poverty bothers me, so I keep the work pushin’
Like a chef in the kitchen, I be always cookin’
Don’t try to show muscle and get flexed on, I flex arms
Got you walkin’ through the city with the sweat palms
Check the pedigree, the legend be – I’m heavenly
My rhyme past swole likе Triple H and Booker T
Ballistics
Just like a couplе blunts, you got me twisted
If any man alive is on my level of linguistics
Karate chop the block with my spontaneous traditions
I drop another tape, it’s like a holiday in my dimension
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Tha God Fahim & Nicholas Craven Lyrics – Dear Friend