Seven in the morning police at my door
But I spent last night on someone else’s floor
Out the back window didn’t know where I was
I was still kinda buzzed with a head full of drugs
Lookin at my Nixon and it’s about that time
To go and save the world from the daily grind
Speakin' of which, I gotta hit the OC
For a quick sesh with my skate park OG’s
Oh please, this is still Mid-City
Wanna check my street cred go ahead come get me
On the block like mopeds or the threads on your Dickies
And I flow code red off the head so swiftly
Stole the Scribble show
Fled had the feds go get me
Still got head from your thoroughbred
No hickies, oh really?
Throw a veil on your Filly
Took pictures of a crack like that bell out in Philly
Had to kick out my tail cause she smelled like Phillies
Smoking blunts left her breath so stale, could’ve killed me
Silly quick-witted when I spit the shit get it
I mean sit kitted, I mean, aw shit
It’s amazing I remember all the different shit I’m into
I try to stay focused on getting legal tender
Gotta stay on the grind cause if the legends get signed
Gotta split that dough between 8 7 6 5
4 and 3 and 2 and 1
And when I’m on the mic, the women come
Down with A-N-T, Murs and you’re not
And I got more rhymes than California got cops
Nine the mornin' police at my door
Tryin' to wonder what the fuck they want to talk to me for
She said she wanted money for some fundraiser shit
I slammed the door in her face and said «Fuck you bitch!»
Lookin at my Nixon and it’s about that time
For me to light another cigaratte and settle my mind
Footsoldier, been waiting for the took over
Probably won’t be getting naked if she looks over
I’m a primate with pimp-like mind state
Raising the curb to make contemporaries irate
Still obsessed with your breasts and your fishnet
Beating on my thin chest screaming out «Mid West!»
My nature is to make you a believer
On your stereo receiver or your barely legal beaver
Buzzin' overhead spittin' fly game
Nowadays cats be getting paid and layed up off of my name
Wait a minte, take a number
Made a visit to your village with this fresh baked biscuit
And stayed consistent
Breaking in the heads ain’t as difficult
When half of them are trippin' over how they missed the boat
The key is controlled but your flow is contrived
Keep it in my soul take it with when I die
Plug that mic in and let heaven get live
Turn a groupie into an angel when she 8 7 6 5
4 and 3 and 2 and 1
And when I’m on the mic all your homegirls come
Down with A N T Slug and you’re not
And I got more rhymes than rappers who got shot