| I know a place back home where the dopest rap was livin' |
| Poets had a vision but never noticed swag or image |
| And rappers wore sweats whenever they stormed sets |
| Cause the word «swag» wasn’t even born yet |
| See I’m from New York, so you know for my city I gotta battle |
| So the hottest rap’ll be returned to the Rotten Apple |
| You gettin' socked and tackled, talkin' that sweet stuff |
| I’mma get a police truck, capture all these cheese puffs |
| And send 'em to Rikers Island to show 'em what bars is |
| Cause your bars are Charizard, you Pop-Tart kids |
| See, I am an arsonist, bars charged with larceny |
| No one gives a fuck if you ever started on varsity |
| Dog, you get a cracked dome, go back home |
| I been keepin' it thoroughbred and I still be watchin' my cash grow |
| Go back to the Roots, where’s ya Common Sense at? |
| A hip-hop Tribe Called, and they want their Quest back |