| Yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah | 
| Yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah | 
| Yeah (Yeah) | 
| Yeah yeah (Yo) | 
| Damn, I hate it when it rain | 
| Ever since I came in the game | 
| Some hated on the fame | 
| A lot of niggas done changed | 
| And started actin’strange | 
| Even labels turning they backs | 
| And started backing lames | 
| Radio is the same, whole lotta speculatin' | 
| These mutherfuckas defacatin’on the name | 
| Wu-Tang, if this is where the hip-hop is Radio lyin’then, that ain’t where hip-hop live | 
| It lives in the streets, we eat to live they livin’to eat | 
| I’m fed up, that nigga rides in 'em, givin 'em sleep | 
| R.I.P., make me the king of all I see | 
| And when death call I’m good I got call ID | 
| See it was planned in the front, now they just gon’front | 
| Like my joints is on proactive, and they just don’t bump | 
| Then niggas gon’say I lost my skill | 
| when in fact they all been programmed | 
| And lost they feel, fo’real | 
| They’ve got so much things to say right now | 
| They’ve got so much things to say | 
| They’ve got so much things to say right now (Yeah) | 
| They got so much things to say (Yo) | 
| Damn, another artist chokes again | 
| They ain’t cut as close as him or even broke the skin | 
| See how niggas ain’t yo friends, when there ain’t no ends | 
| Don’t care who the case offend, don’t underrate my pen | 
| I got what it takes to win, while ya’ll are thinking I’m trash | 
| Loving the taste of success and this drink in my glass | 
| Watch 'em cosign that whack shit, give it a pass till it’s gone | 
| Quicker than Red, can’t get rid of them clubs | 
| When they’re wrong, call the cops, they credibility’s shot | 
| It’s time to learn, what hot really is and really is not | 
| Off brain niggas, Meth gonna let 'em know off top | 
| Don’t get smacked on dvds, trying to show off blocks | 
| I can’t stop cause my enemies plot, or cause the cops want me Shackled and locked inside the penalty box | 
| And while they waitin’for my shit to flop | 
| They gettin’pimped like hoes | 
| Sellin’they ass just to get my spot, come on man | 
| Ask Miss Hill, half these critics ain’t got half this skill | 
| Often so hungry that they have to steal | 
| If I didn’t have my deal, and didn’t have this mass appeal | 
| Then I’m back up in that trap, swingin’crack it’s real | 
| And that ain’t worth the time, so search and find a new nerve | 
| And here’s three words: stop working mine | 
| It take a lot more to hurt my pride | 
| Jerk my vibe more than media lies, cry when dirt dog die nigga | 
| The last album wasn’t feeling my style | 
| This time my foot up in they ass but they feelin’me now | 
| Cause Tical, he put his heart in every track he do But somehow yall find someway to give a whack review | 
| It ain’t all good, they writin’that I’m Hollywood | 
| Tryin’to tell you my shit ain’t ghetto and they hardly hood | 
| Come on man, until you dudes can write some rhymes | 
| Keep that in mind when you find yourself reciting mines |