[Verse 1: Raspy MC] Ayy, I’m the raw nerve from the river with the razor-wire swing, You a Mardi Gras mask, I’m the blade in the ring, I’m the flood on the beat, you the puddle, I’m the tide, I’m the trunk in the trunk, you a ride with no pride. I’m the brass-bone menace, gumbo grit in my diction, You a fake-book flex, I’m the hood’s own scripture, I spit black-tar rhythm, you spit sugar-coated talk, I’m the boot on the Bourbon, you the chalk on the sidewalk. You sound cute in the booth, but you frail in the field, I’m a hard-backed headline, you a lie that won’t heal, I got battin’-eyelash venom and a laugh like a siren, You got glitter and a gimmick, I got thunder and timing. I’m the queen of the quarter where the corner boys plot, You a tourist on tour if the applause ever stop, I bend bars like banisters, make your whole frame fold, You rehearse for the mirror, I perform for the cold. [Chorus: Both] Who run NOLA? Say it loud, let it ring, let it sting, Two queens on the track but only one wears the thing, I’m the crown, I’m the flame, I’m the bite, I’m the brass, Step in my city, lil’ bitch, and get passed. Who run NOLA? Yeah, the streets know the name, Every bar got a scar, every glance got flame, We don’t play, we don’t pose, we don’t bow, we don’t beg, One of us leaves with the throne and the other one dead. [Verse 2: High Nasal MC] Girl, please, you a rerun with a rusted-out mic, I’m a bright-knife cyclone, I’m the strike at the strike, I got a pinched-up pitch but my venom is precise, I slice through your swagger like a tax on your vice. You talk big, but your bars got the smell of old smoke, I’m a fresh-caught flex with a surgically cold joke, You the “been there, done that,” I’m the “bitch, look again,” I’m the itch in your crown and the splinter in your grin. I’m a high-tone hurricane, I hit with a grin, I’m the hiss in the cymbals, I’m the needle in the skin, You drag slow like a parade with a flatline snare, I’m a hot wired heartbreak with a don’t-give-a-damn glare. You got gravel and gravity, cute, but I float like a threat, I’m the bankroll mouthpiece with a permanent set, I make dense little diamonds out of dirt and disdain, While you bark like a bulldog with a busted-up chain. [Verse 3: Raspy MC] You talk like a trophy with the bolts undone loose, I’m a back-alley engine with a boot on the juice, I’m the kiss of the pit, I’m the hiss of the brick, You the clickbait queen with a performance so sick— —Sick in the sad way, not the hard way, nah, I’m the hard way, lawless, with the jaw like “bah,” I’m the cracked-ice cadence, you a plastic-daquiri pose, I chew through your chorus and I spit out the clothes. I got cadence like curses and a grin full of knives, You got sparkle, but sparkle don’t mean you survive, I’m the talk of the Treme, I’m the bruise of the block, You the Instagram fable with a fake little shock. Keep your pretty little flex, I got ruin in my lungs, I can out-rap the reaper while I’m chewing my tongue, New Orleans made me mean, made me holy, made me hot, I’m the queen, you a challenge, and you already lost. [Chorus: Both] Who run NOLA? Say it loud, let it ring, let it sting, Two queens on the track but only one wears the thing, I’m the crown, I’m the flame, I’m the bite, I’m the brass, Step in my city, lil’ bitch, and get passed. Who run NOLA? Yeah, the streets know the name, Every bar got a scar, every glance got flame, We don’t play, we don’t pose, we don’t bow, we don’t beg, One of us leaves with the throne and the other one dead.
