Spike your Nikes, and lace your Asics/
I go for your jugular, so do your best to escape this/
I don't rap, I play ouiji with dead poets/
Letters become words, turned verbs, I'm dead focused/
My people on my back, myself on the back burner/
I'm back, dipped in black, on horseback like Nat Turner/
My rap journal/
Is set up to upset these thug vets and they punk sets/
So what's next? Success/
See the best I must be, the next Malcolm X in the flesh, son trust me/
By any means, get down for what I believe in/
Give Christ himself something else to believe in/
Y'all said you'd be in the game for a minute,
but the second I get the spitting, you suckas be leaving/
betta run/
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