[Malcolm X intro]

[Benjamin Starr]

Uh, its Allah.. Uh, it's Allah.. it's Allah

Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Islam

Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Wisdom

My neck, wrists riddled with ice these lights hit on

Half wise man and Heisman, stiff arm

Blue collar emcee, White collar capable

The prodigy, the Pac in me, quality rap ratio

Amused, but confused where to put y'all

Something like the 'Cak meeting 3 Stacks

And a Black Johnny Football

I learned from a nigga sipping Schlitz malt liquor

Eating rice and cube steaks, banging Ice Cube tapes

My cards are face value, stack decks like Aztecs

I can rap 20 12’s if I have to

I’m proof, niggas chasing me

Master level masonry, 33 degrees in the breeze, no sleeves

I flame Jamaican weed, please pray for me

New God flow, brings the shadiest Atheists to the Papacy

I’m Richard Pryor on Sunset, you guessed it

Show so dope, your nose tingles, red suit – single breasted

I could rock Barclays in Penny Hardaways’

With the backdrop of a Minister Malcolm X message

This is real rap and I’m inclined to spit

Black scientific, every lyric reads vivid like the hieroglyphs

It’s truth in my literature, I’ve got a flare for it

You sharp-shoot in the booth, my flow is like the Figure 4

I’ve got this rap on tap, it’s no basic brew

Sobering, no contact, I got lasik view

Fort Knox, gold grill, niggas faces Blue

On your block I’m like Spock in that spaceship coupe

Futuristic, I spewed it and views shifted

Truth is, I stand accused, I tutored the youth different

The Black Bob Fischer, I check chess so often

At best I get 'Shakespearesque' when shit talking

Tell me why I need a Basquiat, when every bar I drop is art?

All my abstract strokes for Black folks

Steady hands paint revivals, I ain’t color blind

So I color mine with Scott Heron, Bobby Bland vinyls

I don’t own a Rembrandt or Warhol

Just Romare Bearden, those collages on the walls of my conscience

I am never rattled, I withstand shots

Child of survival, I was Stokely Carmichael in the sandbox

The shit I unsheathe, for deaf streets

The second I bless beats

Is just a bit fresher than chef’s quiche

Undefeated, blending the Blues with a lit fuse

Please excuse the Don Shula in, my maneuvering

All my shit classic, I put the 'Cak in a casket

I agitated the flames and I resurrected the ashes

This is God work through a sinner

Every line, every rhyme, know I sign, Bobby Seale and deliver

Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Islam

Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Wisdom

My neck, wrists riddled with ice these lights hit on

Half wise man and Heisman, stiff arm

Never need a control verse for shit that I controlled first

I give truth to dying ears, salute the pioneers

Relaxed in the plush leather with the lights down

Mr. Taylor playing “Shoot that Fucka' Right Now”

This is Free Lunch