On the South Side, ha

Gon' get down with that get down

Let me spit rounds

This is how the shit sounds

Check it out, y'all, ha, ha

It's the metaphysicals, some say the score of the revolution

Therefore, I have come

A calm before the storm

Words are born, formed, drawn in the brain

Soar, scorned by the pourin' rain

But I can stand it, seldom do I feel stranded

Granted, I stand with the style that is free

I'm the Mandela, ask Nelson, brothers love me

I lay it lovely, I'm ugly bogus on the mic

I strike like a teacher, rappers are lines

Stand in lines with they signs tryna picket

They picket the way I kick it

'Cause with it, I'm not wicked, 'cause that's malignant

I use my figments which is vivid

And give it to ya, baby, like love without no limit

I have no limits, no gimmicks, no image, don't mimic, I'm finished

No minutes to be timid

When shit stick, should I spit wit

I'm the nitwit, that sick shit I stick with

And kick with the crew I clique with

That's who I sit with and trip with and sip with

The buds are nipped in, and gold, I gift it

And hit without equipment I've often been depicted

As the solid one in liquid

Yo, this is shit's for my man Honda