Who's world is this, the world is yours.

You ni**az get me sick, wannabe soundin like you know my arithmetic... but we don't sound alike

I don't meditate. Silence is golden though.

You a slave to a page in my rhyme book.

...Shorty's laugh was cold-blooded as he spoke so foul, Only twelve tryin to tell me that he liked my style. Then I rose, wiping the blunt's ash from my clothes, Then froze, only to blow the herb smoke through my nose.

If the truth is told, the youth can grow.

Mind's in another world thinking how can we exist through the facts

Street's disciple, my raps are trifle. I shoot slugs from my brain just like a rifle.

Me and hip-hop have a relationship that has nothing to do with no other rapper, no matter where you from or nothing. Every n*gga got his own personal relationship with hip-hop and this is mine.