I learned from the style warriors, B -boys, savants, and sidehulls, with time flying by

me at the speed that thoughts move.

Homage to the last luriettes that got loose and laid the groundwork since grade school

and boxed jewels.

When they were sporting shell toes to class, I had the Ninja Turtle joints with the Velcro

straps.

Generation after generation, pass the baton, I'll turn the party out, you throw a couple

stacks in my palm.

Heard the gospel according to Nas and Plug, too, when life was Mort, Lord of the Flies

and Crushed Grove.

After school scraps in Crackville, Cap Hill, late nights squabbling my name, watching for

grass shills.

Dimes, quarters, and halves, practicing math skills, growing up too fast with glass half -filled.

Every child needs a patient word, every painted bird needs space to process what they observe.

Let's end it with a bang like when Adam split apart.

I aim to fuel the flames of the true 11 spark.

Maker hit the mark, knocked it out of Wrigley Park.

Razor sharp, Taylor made to compliment the written art.

Yes, indeed.

If you don't feel this, check your pulse.

It's like angel butter on your breakfast toast.

Yeah, before Andre was called Three Stacks, I got my liquor education off of my beat tracks.

And Prodigy, my favorite rapper, at times caught me flirting.

Stolen side of Lawson, the cops had caught me flat.

Tell the man behind the best stacks, run it back, Eric Metcalf.

My handle was tight, but I couldn't nail that step back.

It was Descartes, Probst, Medella.

So, I think, therefore, I am Abidog.

Smoke it if you got it, twice the three -fold.

Golden Eye, Silo, got nice with the cheat codes.

They scramble Spice Channel, dog.

You see what I'm saying, though?

And AAU, I pop in KG on my free throws.

If the weed lays, need quick feet for police chase.

Heartbeat accelerate like Bob James' beat breaks.

Damage was fantastic, nine millis in deep space.

My man's grams point eight.

I knew he's a cheapskate.

My boy got a DUI, ran straight in a mailbox.

Lost my V -card the week Supreme clientele dropped me.

Gus the big homie, I would meet him at his crib.

Like Bella Caroli, who taught me the art of the flip.

Not yet humble, still talking my shit.

Every dumb young boy needs to grow up a bit when he gets popped and lit.

And I won my first rap, but I lost my second bad.

But if I ever run it back, I wouldn't take a second back.

Yeah.

What's up, man?

If you ain't feeling this, then check them vital signs before dotted lines or affecting the bottom line.