Pulled up on the L‑train, sack heavy like a weighted scuba vest, Queen‑size beauty in mink coat, lips stained in Two‑Face finesse, I’m sparkin’ a blunt so loud it wakes The Candy Man of Cabrini bridges, She drippin’ in gold like the skyline, heat mirage on High Ridge. We hit the loop at dawn, hiss of vapes through the rail‑yard mist, I’m rollin’ kush so dark it takes souls on a trip to the abyss, She dance to my verses like fire‑escape twerk in Pilsen rain, Hits of acid on my tongue got my neurons racin’ at the Metra train. I laugh at these clowns poppin’ flows like flat soda in paper cups, They soft like soggy deep‑dish, I’m sharp like Willis Tower trench cuts, They rhyme sick for clout, I rhyme clean, delivering bullets in rapid-fire mode, I got quotable flows so raw they turn their auto‑tune to slow. I devour shrooms with one ear glued to the speaker, She rehearsin’ my words like she on stage at the old Congress Theater, These rappers got syllable‑count envy, weak‑tweet blow‑diesel, I’m quadruple‑stacking phrases, jumpin’ tracks like Evel Knievel. Hot women clutch chainz, they know I break weak flows on sight, While I smoke a pound and lean in tunnels, soaked in street glowin’ light, I’m takin’ acid trips by the river, spectroscopy on my spine, They spit trash lines, I lace mine with particle‑painted design. Their rhymes pencil‑thin; mine weigh a ton like old L tracks, They chase clout with generic rhymes—I’m feedin’ minds with impact, I command multiple armies like I’m Genghis Khan takin’ over the map, They babble like broke news, I bring doomsday to your tracks till they collapse. I trip at Resurrection Mary’s cemetery, talkin’ to spirits conversations with em’, She clinched to my side, rollin’ joints stamped The Real, Amen, They mumble “what’s the message?” I drop maps to the methane flare, I carve words in concrete like my verses born from Lake Michigan’s glare. I torch weak rappers in Logan Square with a lyrical blow‑torch, They crumble like abandoned brownstones, I rebuild with torch‑porch scorch, My verses trip urban legends, acid‑baptized serpents on tracks, They spit empty loops, I deliver revolution in quadruple‑stacked packs. I’m zoned off shrooms in a White Sox cap, rollin’ up loud in a thrift store tux, Got hoes in Crocs with ankles thick, throwin’ it back while they lightin’ my blunts. We post on porches with plates of steak and forbidden science experiments, I spit like a math test skippin’ questions, with exquisite specifics like pyramids. I’m slidin’ through Southside nights with women so thick, with hips you’ll never forget, She tatted from collar to hipbone, straddlin’ me mid-hit off a cigarette. I write like I’m scrawlin’ in blood on a Lou Malnati's menu with acid drips, These rappers still stuck on gun bars, I’m filmin’ apocalypse skits with a Death-note wish list. My old shit cooks your new hits, I bake thoughts in a pothole oven with kush drizzles, Your flow sound like wind in a Pringle can, I rip like meth in a flute whistle. I’m trippin’ off tabs on a Roseland stoop, where the stray cats chase bad omens, She licked my verse off a mushroom plate, then twerked till the moon cracked open. They spit in emojis, I spit in Swahili script across Red Line tile, I’m blendin’ terpenes with truth like I’m makin’ tinctures for the Martyr Mile. She arch like a drawbridge, moanin’ my lines while I ghostride a gold plated rental, I got more quotes than a beatnik on shrooms reciting poetry in a Winnebago temple. They mumble like bad sax over loop kits with no bones in the beat, I freestyle like Kenny G hittin’ keynotes drinkin’ radioactive tea. My punchlines bounce off street lamps and peel the veneer off their raps, I got flows that march through Grant Park leakin’ lava lamps through fitted caps. I’m the wordsmith chef, fryin’ up lyrics in a skillet of street food and dread, Got her moanin’ my name in italics while throwin’ her drawers at my meds. She drippin’ in sweat and THC, we meltin’ through blankets and memes, While your crew do collabs with Canadian geese, I collab with my DMT dreams. My weed got paranoia soaked in the strain, make a broke boy see his karma, I dropped a bar so hard it cracked her vape pen and set fire to her father. They gimmick their lines with pre-teen schemes, I flood mine in pagan pain, I write like a prophet with blunt ash fingers and vinegar blood in the vein. She grinds to my voice like it’s Samba percussion in Bronzeville heat, We fuck with the windows opened wide, while the neighbors quote what we speak in the sheets.
