This shit remind me of my grimy old days,
fitted on top a rag on some '90s Ghostface,
get with me out back with the kine and we gon' blaze,
the sack hit you like a lineback in a pro game.
You cant QB my QP, you so tame,
on the QT I'll Bruce Lee your whole frame.
In the cypher cutting loose and calling bros names,
then holler at cuties and try to coax brains.
Now I'm feeling like it's old age, bones ache,
hang on the corner and go home with toe pain,
thinking about Rogaine, missing how I used to go ham,
but it's no shame, time provokes change.
But I still rock a fitted, not a snapback,
ain't fuck with the knapsack, and my name lacks “Mac,”
so don't bracket me with none of that frat rap claptrap, I'm apt to snap,
assault and batter like fatback next to a flapjack.
Yeah, this is that track when I say “I'm back, ho,”
digging all up in your back ho like a backhoe.
It's safe to say these days I'm in attack mode,
flavors from VA, but ain't slave tobacco.
No longer pack bowls, don't fuck with frat bros,
dropping them bad habits micro to macro,
ain't tryna act like no pastor or saint though,
but the mic flow stay Tabasco, case closed.
I offered peace but you passed on it,
in all honesty I wasn't all that astonished.
You been asking for that ass to get admonished,
how you gonna act knowledgable but don't acknowledge?
This that quarter-ounce piff, 20 bag knowledge,
you like a porterhouse, thick with some fat pockets—
ain't talking about the way you stack profits,
I'm saying that your gray matter got a few too many flab deposits.
Look, I was a wild kid too,
but like Mos said, certain shit you just don't do,
I'm an old head, learn the game and heed those rules,
no respect is a hurt apologies won't soothe.
In the old days I'd blow haze like CO2,
but I won't fake, no Rozay, no CO too,
plain as the nose on my face I'd breathe smoke through
I never sold weight but I would see Os too.
Now it's no place for zeroes like Sudoku,
seaweed floating in my miso soup with tofu;
soft, squishy, only tough when it gets heated,
I'm old enough to know the type when I see it.
Old enough to be grateful for blessings I'm receiving,
old enough to know what beef is,
I'm old enough to know the road is rough, but kids, I can show them stuff,
old enough to fold a cuff, word to Freak Aliaz, he knows what's up.
I'm old enough to show sober love,
not vacant infatuation that don't last past a token fuck.
I'm patching up my broken trust,
learning not to hide amongst the crowd like the Joker in the stolen bus.
Yeah I still joke and cuss, spit, swagger and pose and strut,
I know my boasting days ain't over, but,
painting a room the only time I roll the Dutch Boy,
I'm old enough to know a soldier from a plush toy.
You perform, probably make some suckers applaud,
like US foreign policy, get the puppets installed,
but deep down you know you're fake, and it stuck in your craw,
really ain't no one to blame, just the luck of the draw,
but insecurity wouldn't let you adjust to it all,
so you pointed your fury at someone that wasn't involved,
for the sake of your ego, start a ruckus and brawl
and that's one of the main reasons I ain't fucking with y'all.