He knows my name, but...
My name is not my name.
And you?
To them, you're only the Greek.
And of course...
I'm not even Greek.
Ha ha ha ha!
Yeah.
Baclava.
Yeah.
Hologram.
Yeah.
That's coming out.
Yo, it's Mr. 4040.
Uh-huh.
Dressed like I'm stretched from naughty.
A young brother that'll stretch his shorty.
David Caruso couldn't connect the story or solve the puzzle.
His favorite murder weapon was a shovel.
It's the jefe.
Spanish women all over my body like I'm Machete Holmes.
All I do is write these essay poems.
Let's get dusted at the Mets game, Holmes.
Like 16 handles,
catch me swirling in the left lane,
Holmes.
I don't even got my left leg on.
Trying to dance tonight.
This ancient language that I sing wrapped up my hands and eyes.
Me and my brother go together just like lamb and rice.
I
eat African shrooms while rapping on tunes.
Back in June when I clapped at your goon.
Ah. My car color blue awful.
It's new and it's too awful.
The limo driver Rudolph will
offer you new golf shoes.
Working on my birdie putt.
You heard me slide.
Hurry up, Kirby
butt.
I need a bitch to go down on me.
I mean really go to town on me.
I mean really do
a number on me.
Supply in the league.
A few fiends died at my feet.
God dealt a bad hand
off a half gram.
Feast the famine.
Give you a half Xan and throw you in the Grand Canyon.
You * dead.
Get up.
Main doing good.
That's a rumor that I heard wearing Tom and G and blue fence on us.
They want to test me like I'm Bradley Bill.
None of you motherfuckers real money can pass the steel mass appeal,
mass production,
mass
destruction,
crime,
corruption,
wine consumption on a private island.
Well,
then the sun through shade because it's jealous of my medallion.
Pitching the next battle late nights like Jimmy Fallon.
Louis Hill covered with dice.
Picture me stabbing.
My life story is an open shirt outfit.
We get in money.
Kids, you niggas ain't about *.