Key To Life

[Verse 1] It get no great as me Even the haters see I must be eleven hundred if I ain't a G Before the deal, cuban links or the AMG Trying to steal Cuban Linx out of HMV I'm a vet, where's the level of respect? I do this shit for rec It was never about a check Check, I'm that nicer How could you ever bash Writer? I wrote rhymes for the jects to have a rap cypher Facts, biter; you don't have to ask questions My first battle was against a battle rap legend You rappers have sessions just to put out dirt I ain't just put in work, I put out work Ask Cam though, everything I put out worked Grown man flow, get anyone you pushed out worked Knight with the armor, light with the scharma Which one of y'all don't think Writer's a monster? I will bomb ya, everything I write you should honor I had cyphers with Jim when he was driving a Honda Facts, I'm spitting crack, come buy you a pack I been bodying cats before they popped up with Smack Grew up with Rex, Lux; a couple guys that could rap And killed tracks with Juelz when he was driving a Ac That's real rap, you ain't tuned into a lame I'm on Pluto with it mayne We ain't musically the same! (at all) How could you explain moving in the game To a nigga who helped build the biggest movement in the game? Calling it quits, he don't get rawer than this Put the corpse in the ditch, just hit record and it's lit Anytime I'm in the place, divas all on my dick Bunch of diamonds in the face, Jesus tour on my wrist Underrated, but your mother favorite Let the beat breathe, I don't wanna suffocate it [Verse 2:] Where's the ambulance? You don't stand a chance Grams got 'em back and forth, hammer dance Them old days, hand to hand on Amsterdam I had a coke wave when French was just a camerman That ain't a diss, don't be asking me if I got beef with anybody, these are facts that I spit I'm passionate bitch, there's passion in these tracks that I rip You will never be a match because I'm lit, trick Straight up sick, but they love Rif Hud 6 told me "Get 'Em" was a straight up hit (R.I.P.) Them real bars of crack you don't wake up with I did real songs with Stacks, no made up shits Shit, how I'm not great, I'm tired of y'all fakes Come out of y'all face, don't fly to my estate You know me fam, I ain't got the lot of y'all fakes I toured Japan off of a couple Writer's Block tapes Wait, ain't no touching Writer Y'all a bunch of biters I ain't passing the blunt, I'll fuck up the cypher I'm a pro -- you ain't know, now you know The damn nail salon don't even wanna go toe to toe But yo, I ain't ya average spitter, I mastered this Ask your bitch, she been at a nigga way before I had a Twitter What had happened nigga, we taking this over I leave him in the clouds if he claim he a smoker Roller, you could smell the hazy aroma Smoke enough of this, you'll spend the day in a coma Different kind of bling, I hang with the owners Rocks sticking out the ring like Adrien Broner News break, how you niggas gonna scoop cake? What you know about getting a quarter mill for two tapes? I overgrind dummy, being broke is not funny I put in work, like I need that overtime money Money, I'm a beast Understand that seeing me You better off jumping off the roof and landing on your feet, capiche? All these other rappers are basic It's Asics, made me take a nap when they played it Face it, these cats ain't got the talent to take it You wasted, with some wack cats on your playlist I download they tracks to erase it I think its about time I them back to the greatness