When your eyes close for the last time, who will be in the back of your mind? I told cats "I have a glass mind; museum style," to figure them out. But every time I figure, they always reply like "MY N***A!" And they give me a pound as if I'm Pablo. No Escobar. Picasso. As hard as I go, cats ought to know not to test it. But I confess. It's not a blessing. More like a curse. My behind is stressed. Then again, the blessing of which I spit is different in your eyes. Because it comes out with my eyelids closed, and my book unfolded

I got my dirt. I got my own satellite
You got my sand. I want that and satellites
That's right

Getting my feelings out the way real quick, I say real shit. Stay in the building. Cats can't wait to be chillin', but I'm just... great. Like Dilla. And I'm waiting for the day when Dylan could get sampled by both of us. So much for love, as we grow. So dope. Motherfuckers should know. My M.O. is riding close by the guys who provide the toast for I. Ready to blast. Ready to hit. Ready to exit. (in my head, I'm the shit) I'm ready to ball my fist AND FUCK EVERY LAST ONE OF Y'ALL N***AS UP! So get a cup. 'Cause I slit your mug. Y'all n***as really suck. Suck my dick. I build the building up. You in love with this?

I got my dirt. I got my own satellite
You got my sand. I want that and satellites
That's right

You don't even know what I go through when I flow. My flow is so overdose. And the flow mixed with words, makes n***as virgins again. I can take the shit. Superb. Like Shang Tsung when the day's done. The virginity you've been given with my words because they're pure and they're in The Industry. And I enter thee with each word that I give to thee. So perfect rhymes are my symphony. I heard that time was dying for me. Well, I am dying to be heard! My word is golden. Like the axe of the holes that I'm poking. Microphone knows this, and it's got some holes, too! How 'bout I try to hold you...

I got my dirt. I got my own satellite
You got my sand. I want that and satellites
That's right