[Verse: Roc Marciano]
Yeah, uh
My Haitian n***as'll chop your shit
My lady chocolate, thick, she like Taral Hicks
The seats in the six resemble trail mix
The torch is in the pail like a welder's kit
The hitter sent the whip in a tailspin
The tires made the V-12 skid
I'm a big kid, I feel like I'm twelve again
The crib come with Benson and Mr. Belvedere
I'm cooking 'caine in the kitchen, we selling hella squares
I might sell my Roc-A-Fella sharеs and take my bands elsewhеre
The pinky ring a mere twelve grand (It's nothing)
I had a thing for Pam Grier (Yeah)
Wood paneling on the Wagoneer, the stairway cashmere
Exotic cat hair, don't let my jacket scratch your hand
I had my mans tap-dance on the grams
Break the brick in half, Jackie Chan, shit was khaki tan
I had twenty racks in my Balen' track pants
A small cash advance to hit some blue magic, you see the package stamp
Crack the Dutch Master to wrap the plants
Scrap your plans, I'm back to El Capitan
Been to hell and back, I'm just a black man
Land but run half a man
The Taliban brand, but not from Pakistan
What's crackin' fam?
My bitch pulled up with the ratchet on her lap and said