It’s the hands-free hurt you virtue –patience.
i be chillin’ where you make your mistakes friend.
i mean, i be building where you renting your space. see, i’m clean.
all i ever held was my horses for the reign
and grand steer clear o’ slander. it’s naked to see
that you a fake when i talk about me- the lawfully wed.
i read six bars written over three days,
spittin’ ‘em two and three ways, perfectin’ the phrase.
never on some hurry and wait for a plate.
i’ll eat what’s available. my fate is un-jailable: patron saint of the flow.
you like, “say it ain’t so.” i’m full circle though, no way to corner me.
and i be right here ridin’ camels through the eye
of brainstorms, buyin’ time like superfly,
so i can smell the roses in the rap narration
of my legend twenty-five years in the makin’.
I dreamt of being seventeen up in the magazine- on my most special ed.
but that wasn’t even half the dream.
shoulda seen the cream i had eyes for, the hots for,
hard-dick lyric bangin’ on a locked door
that this nigga name “in” rest beyond.
for a long time though he wouldn’t even correspond.
so it was just me, propositionin’ mr. dustry like,
“trust me, it’s way husky.”
i got the hottest rhyme book around.
i cook the sound medium-rare. let the big snares blare.
i live and breathe this mr. in dustry. just give a listen.
you will find i’m what you been missin’: total package with the global options.
i can leap over lies and mash down doctrines.
he wasn’t even hearin’ it. that’s okay though.
it gave me time to analyze the cliché that goes…
Haste makes waste. walk, don’t run. take time to be safe.
fuck around and get egg all on your face.
pace yourself son. pace… your body. just pace.
cuz you can work hard and never blow.
or you can work smart and better ya flow.
you can’t hurry game though.
you f*** around and get egg on your face. so pace… your body.
And look. you don’t understand. i don’t understand either
how the cornballs came to commandeer the receiver.
used to be a time when a rhyme couldn’t fly if it wasn’t fly.
now, you got pray a man doesn’t die.
a dis record is a dangerous thing nowadays.
not to say your instincts ain’t to trust but fame,
it ain’t to be gotten dick-ridin’.
that’s basically what you be on when you spend breath to scorn.
let the whack dudes be the whack dudes cuz the whack dudes can’t touch.
dudes with the real aptitude rhyme victory raps that patience is the author of.
the whack dudes burn fast like sparklers.
so they be out ya way in no time.
and you be still gittin’ dap while them suckers see no shine.
it’s for the best wit no blood on ya hands.
hence, the hands-free hurt you virtue: patience