European girls, love the accent.
Cuz we dress fly, and how we talk quick.
East coast beast, and that new york spit.
If you ain’t got a style like that, its basic.

When I was a young’n, before I carved out a lane.
I rocked, ain’t no half steppin, by big daddy kane.
Much respect to the vets, Rakim and Lord Finesse.
The Boot Camp Click, lost boyz and all the rest.
Paying homage to the city that birthed the rap game.
Kool G. Rap, KRS, home of the Wu-tang.
Where niggas gangbang, on blocks with bodega’s.
A zoo without cages, with wolves in alligators.
I got love for my people, on Rykers Isle.
Those who rocked with a cat, with only hunger and style.
Real love like Mary Jay, on streets where bullets spray.
Hustled six days a week, and on the seventh we’d pray.
Now its luxury homes, transparent cell phones.
Summer trips to Rome, butter and jam on scones.
Some try to make millions, others try to get by.
Vinum be stacking paper, cuz life do or die.

European girls, love the accent.
Cuz we dress fly, and how we talk quick.
East coast beast, and that new york spit.
If you ain’t got a style like that, its basic.

On the streets of Brooklyn, cats were sell soap as dope.
Crack fiends would come running, for bags of lost hope.
Street life was hard, dealing their occupation.
Vinum was courting fame, money’s her conversation.
You gotta spend some, to make some. Save some, for when grey comes.
Break it down, when the weight comes. Put hands on a nigga, if he plays dumb.
There’s rules to this game, and codes in the streets.
Those are too deep to speak about, on raps and beats.
So I avoid the nonsense, cuz I gotta feed the fam.
It’s survival of the strongest, in parts of Amsterdam.
Same story world-wide, human life has a price.
Used to kick-it with my dogs uptown, shooting dice.
Drinking fourty’s of O.E., tipsy but never wasted.
Macking on booshi girls, who were self-medicated.
The most-under-rated and hated, dope MCee that’s faded.
Off loud packs of killer, each tokes premeditated.