[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