Watch This

[Maxx 39] True signs, clues and riddles, what you do is little I spit hard and hot like cruising missiles, your crew is simple My father’s a Don, talked me into the nice life We run Triz Nain, but only hold hands with the wife types I can show what the mics like, write with right hands, I mean I might type Flavours like my grandmothers white rice, I love life Mics and weed is what my devices be If you ain’t spitting in our cipher, you are really not nice to me Quit acting like you sold grams, son you know the program Fuck your corny slow jams, you don’t want beef, we go ham Word to my old man, scientific matters match Add patterns, lyrical Hardy Boys in a ladder match You washed up like sea shells and sand crabs Didn’t think I had punch lines because my hand jabs To be specific, I reap the wicked, speak and kick it Like the old Joker with Lakers Season tickets…Jack Swag [Shomari Choike/Figgy Fraser] He was four days away from signing, about four plays away from diamond on dat piff Caz' the shit he was spitting was so lyrical, original, keeping a grip it was so difficult Bad bitches on him, telephoning to the morning, talking ‘bout how they could see it, before they ain't believe it Thought it was a myth, he was always on some other shit Talking bout how he had more power than the government Now you defied the constitution, in the highest resolution, you the last prime solution And i’m tryna make it add up, a little contribution A little demonstration girl show me how you do it He wasn’t with the childish games see he was grown Making sure the bills was paid up in the home Single mother raised him, along with the hood A little home training started making statements Got up on his grind then he got up out the basement Never wasted time and he never got complacent [Maxx 39] Four corners, armed cars, with burners in em The oven boys chased us, cuz we wasn’t concerned with prison I leaned division, earned description Those dirty birds turned and missed em, I learned to diss em Yo, who would’ve known that my songs, would pound loud Who knew The Black Market would do numbers, through Sound Cloud Who knew the microphone would come to own us Who knew the Holy Book of Rhyme would have 100 owners [Shomari Choike/Figgy Fraser] Creative prerequisites, Figgy be the dedicate Severing comp, while you still slanging sediments Veteran of purgatory, blunted with the visionaries Dilated pupils bumping Dilated Peoples Grind till I’m an equal, eventually superior High up on the steeple, preaching truth unto my people Failed attempts to read you, you couldn’t peep the sequel in IMAX, I find raps of way past to surpass your thought path to you and your bird bath, Nigga