Chorus:
WS: Yo, Brent T., hit me one time with the bass line.
BT: I will if you bring mad skill with an ill rhyme.
*Aint no problem man we do this shit all the time! x2*
WS: Yo.
BT: What's good?
WS: Why the rhythm so nice?
BT: I don't know man, that's just what I do.
WS: Damn, right.
*Ain't no problem man we do this shit all night! x2*

Verse 1: (Brent T.)
I be causin' mad confusion man there is no doubt.
There ain't a motha fuckin' person that can figure me out.
They like, "He can spit a rhyme, but is he really a musician?"
Mannn shut ya goddamn mouth and just listen.
We risin' above, we coppin' a dub, we comin' up.
Roll up a blunt, that shit is the funk, so obvious-
-that we be them boyz you can motha fuckin' trust
to rip an instrumental like nobody does.
But yo check this... what are people starving for?
And what the hell is goin' on today in Baltimore?
FUCK FOX NEWS - and all the corporate media
Never trust them liars, they tryin' to deceive ya'.
But we ain't gonna leave ya, we here to stay.
Work on the classics, fight the system and get paid,
Because I need to see a world where there are no slaves,
so let's pave the way and get that shit today though.

Chorus

Verse 2: (Warrin Suprime)
I'm a real a rida, muthafuck a coppa,
Finna turn a pig to Jimmy Hoffa,
Yeah bitch i'm awsome, i'm a monster,
Tell a bitch to flip a trick on the dick like Koston,
I Gotta lotta haters, but oh don't we all?
I'm all about the paper, and you ain't involved,
Yeah, I go hard, on every song,
They singin' along cause they wanna hear the funk,
So I bring that shit for sure,
Now they want more,
So I deliver the prescription, by rippin' the illest lyrics,
They itchin' for me to spit, and I kill it,
Every time, like pesticides on butterflies,
And at the same time i fertilize the money tree,
I gotta constantly stay on top of my prophecy,
It's obvious the Gods want me, to be the prodigy,
But quite honestly, it might be my biology,
My Dad was a rockstar and my Momma was a G.

Chorus