[Verse]

It’s not the grind, you inherited a ripsaw

Chugging through your slick-talk bubble that my fists pop

With your rickshaw lugging you around

Drowning in miscalled numbers on your wristwatch

To you, all necessities are purely accoutrements

How ‘bout you start a settlement of actually doing shit

I’m catching on quick; you’re John Vukovich

Gene accrual’s fortuitous

Calloused, Brown hands are a stain on my lineage supposedly

But they stamp the sepia hue on my codices

That explain that the filial arrangements determine what you’ll grow to be

Like a Stakhanovite; limited toolbelt

Sitting with a pot of rice and figure the spoon fell

Stir but nothing sticks; the furniture is fixed

Hollow condoms are your proper price

Stalagmite process; there’s not a lot of time

Felt pads crash into the flop and slip

Stop skittish polishing it isn’t right

Can’t pick a lot of fights; quiverfull plight, shot the knife

Litter is expansive, tell me

Who else is gonna live inside that motherfucking mansion?

Bad cop, worse cop, mea culpa

When the stone rolls out, the weakness shows up

And you call yourself a seasoned sculptor?

Paintbrush, no chisel, keep the brooch tucked

Pulsates when the jig is up

You expect me to take off time just ‘cause the wing is plucked?