Rex Ryan - CONWAY THE MACHINE, Westside Gunn, Roc Marciano

A nigga like me man, I love the game, I love the hustle man

I be feeling like one of them ball player niggas you know

Like Bird, Magic or something

Yeah you know a nigga got dough

A nigga can leave the league

But if I leave… the fans still gone love me man?

I get love out here in Harlem, man

I done sold coke on these streets, man, hash, weed, heroin

As long as niggas is feeling it

A nigga like me could hustle it

(Griselda, by Fashion Rebels)

The yak in my cup, the MAC is tucked, what

I’m Sticky on Bacdafucup

I keep the blinky since

Them niggas clapped my truck up

The wax had me gagging after one puff

I remember bagging jums up

Now it’s a half of one stuffed in the trunk

I stack my funds up

Call my savage and have his gun bust

Then they find you wrapped in plastic in a dump truck

Fuck, only built Diadoras

I pull up with a bitch, they thought it was Rita Ora

My lil' head buster keep his tool ringing off

Got two bodies this summer

He said he needs some more

Highest grade marijuana

Directly from the farmer

My enemies is all goners, guess it was karma

Trauma, four keys in your baby mom’s Elantra

Big ass gun like something out of Contra

Uh, don’t make me spray a nigga

Bodies drop if I okay it, nigga

You know how I play it, nigga

Red October Ye' a nigga

Loud moving slow I had to yay it, nigga

Still ill when I write it

When they don’t name me top five I feel slighted

Niggas be talking but when I’m around they real quiet

You can pray to Jesus all you want

You still dying, motherfucker

Ayo, this the second coming of Christ

Hervé Léger flight jacket, MAC on sight

All red Geiger’s on, stomp you to death

Yeah, you got designers but you rocking it left

Need a new plug, prices getting outrageous

Shot the thirty off, my nigga wasn’t even aiming

Pink lemonade Porsche Cayman

Low Margiela’s looking like a nigga painting

Patience a virtue, my youngins’ll murk you

Ink on the Balmain blazer and the shirt too

Shotgun like Peyton

The Flygod but the all red Yeezy boot’s Satan

Eyes out, gloves on weighing

Cameras on every light pole, woah!

Life’s so great they say a nigga sold his soul

Praying Rex get us a Super Bowl

Bust out the gate

The wrist froze from flipping O’s

You know the rules

Let the jewels go smooth

They never should have sold you dudes Pro Tools

These old dudes let the hoes choose

Nigga your shoes is overused

I hear the fat lady singing that bitch can hold a tune

It’s been said I’m god in the flesh, I had to show and prove (show and prove,

god)

My sneakers is literally from Italy

Leaned on the 'caine, thought it was muscular dystrophy

A hundred shots your Hilfiger look like a fricassee

Who you think you Mr. T?

Mitch Green?

Or the new Richard Roundtree?

(Please)

You found in Queens with your shit twisted like it was ground beef

A few niggas in town grieved

Variegated paint on the i8

Obviously you see that I ate

Don’t think I’m like these other rap niggas 'cause I ain’t

I’m pie rated, you got pie in your face

Denim in supplies for flyweights

You can’t buy taste, we looking at you sideways