[Verse 1: Dirty South male MC, slow and heavy over a rattling 808] Every mornin' he be postin' 'bout the way I make my sound Say my records got no blood, say they ain't from solid ground Say a real one do it raw, say he do it all by hand Then he step into the studio and cue a whole fake band Every note he sing get tuned till it's straighter than a rail Every kick get snapped to grid like a convict in a jail Got his drums out of a pack, got a writer on the clock Got a plug-in for his voice and a plug-in for his walk [Hook: Dirty South male MC, full 808, chopped soul sample stabs] You threw the first stone from a booth made of glass Every rock that you sling comin' back for your ass That's a glass house, homie, with a mic in the middle Keep throwin', it's yours that'll crack, I just tap it a little [Verse 2: Dirty South male MC, harder, claps snapping] Now the booth he record in got a window on each side So the engineer can watch him, so there's nowhere he can hide And he sittin' in that fishbowl with the headphones on his head Throwin' rocks at every record and at every word I said Old book say the one with no sin get to throw it first You ain't sinless, you just loud, and you tuned the loud part worst I don't argue with a man who's standin' in a box of glass I just stroll up to the window and I knock on it and laugh [Breakdown: Dirty South male MC, pane crack, four knuckle knocks on glass, the 808 slams back on the fourth] Knock one, y'all, he look up like he don't care Knock two, little line start runnin' up the square Knock three, it's a web from the corner to the top Knock four, hear it go, and let the whole 808 drop [Hook: Dirty South male MC, full 808, chopped soul sample stabs] You threw the first stone from a booth made of glass Every rock that you sling comin' back for your ass That's a glass house, homie, with a mic in the middle Keep throwin', it's yours that'll crack, I just tap it a little [Verse 3: Dirty South male MC, the payoff, slow drawled flow] Now he standin' in the pieces with his headphones round his neck And the stones he threw at me are piled up right there on the deck Not a single one got out, every rock stayed in the room Bounced right off his own window, he been bruised since his first tune See, a booth is just a glass house with a carpet on the floor And he pitched from in the middle and he never checked the door He be fixin' to post tomorrow, tell 'em how my sound is fake Better hurry, the engineer is sweepin' up his last take [Hook: Dirty South male MC, full 808, chopped soul sample stabs] You threw the first stone from a booth made of glass Every rock that you sling comin' back for your ass That's a glass house, homie, with a mic in the middle Keep throwin', it's yours that'll crack, I just tap it a little [End]
