I hate gossip
And I don’t walk around looking for it, you know?
But, yesterday it seemed to just
Wander around ’til it found me
You know like, the gossip found me
Then why don’t try proving it?
How? You don’t know how to prove it?
Well, what you just do is, stop
(Streetrunner)

Stop hating on a nigga
That is a weak emotion, the lady of a nigga
And you can get tipped like you’re waiting on a nigga
Put a body bag and a apron on a nigga
I give my all behind the mic
But you can never see if you sit behind the light
And you don’t have to pick me to win the title fight
But I’mma wear that championship belt so tight
And if I’m wrong, there is no right
And if I’m wrong, there is Snow White
I’m tryna be polite
But you bitches in my hair like the fucking police
And my flow is rare, these other rappers nice
These other rappers bark, some of ’em even bite
But I’m much more bright, I give the game sight
So before you dim the light, you just might, might wanna

Think it over
Ooh, think it over
Think it over, baby baby (Get ’em)

Stop! Analyzing, criticizing
You should realize what I am and start epitomizing
Legitimate, I got the heart of the biggest lion
I’m confident, like fuck ’em all, pull out my dick and ride it
My flow sick, so sick, it’s like my shit is dying
It rains a lot in my city because my city’s crying
Because my city’s dying
Still I emerge from all of that, I am a living pioneer, near Zion
Fear God, not them, steer my robin coupe
Through the streets of the Boot, and soo-woo!
And then I leak blood in the booth, I leave a bloodbath
Sorry, there’s a tub in the booth, now where the drugs at?
I’m twisted like the strings on a shoe, no, nigga, fuck that
I’m twisted like the strings on a boot, now where New Orleans at?
I feel hip-hop stole me like a bus pass
So in your possession, I-I-I must ask

Hey, haven’t I been good to you?
(Think it over) Tell me, haven’t I been sweet to you?

Drag my name through the mud, I come out clean
Cast away stones, I won’t even blink
A gun is not a math problem, I won’t even think
Just leave you dead like the mink under my sink
Don’t believe in me, don’t believe me
I graduated from hungry and made it to greedy
My flow is like pasta, take it and eat it
But I’m gon’ need cheese if I’m baking a ziti
You niggas want beef, I want a steak, and, uh, we be
Lost in Amsterdam or Jamaica where weed be
Hard-body nigga just taking it easy
All about my paper, ’bout my paper like E-Z
Wider wrappers, why do rappers lie to fans, lie to rappers?
Lot of rappers lie like actors, cut the motherfucking cameras
Cut the check, nigga, fuck your props
And make it out to “Mr. Hip-Hop”

I’m not dead, I’m alive