He knows my name, but my name is not my name. And you? To them, you're only the Greek. And of course, I'm not even Greek. David Caruso couldn't connect a story or solve a puzzle. His favorite murder weapon was a shovel. It's the Hefe. Spanish women all over my body like I'm Machete Holmes. All I do is write these essay poems. Let's get dusted at the Mets game homes. Like 16 handles, catch me swirling in the left lane home. I don't even got my left leg on. Tryna dance tonight. This ancient language that I sing wrapped up my hands are nice. Me and my brother go together just like lamb and rice. Fuck me. I eat African shrooms while rapping on tunes. Back in June when I clapped at your goons. My car color blue, awful. It's new and it's too awful. The limo driver Rudolph will offer you new golf shoes. Working on my birdie putt, you heard me, slut. Hurry up, Kirby butt. I need a bitch to go down on me. I mean really go to town on me. I mean really do a number on me. Supply in the league. A few fiends died at my feet. God dealt a bad hand off a half gram. Feast of famine. Give you a half's hand and throw you in the Grand Canyon. You fucking dead. May ain't doing good. That's a rumor that I heard. Wearing diamonds, eating blue fin tuna. They want to test me like I'm Bradley Bill. None of you motherfuckers real. My nigga past is still. Mass appeal. Mass production. Mass destruction. Crime, corruption. Wine consumption. On a private island, wildin'. The sun through shade cause it's jealous of my medallion. Pitching an anchor pattern. Late nights like Jimmy Fallon. Louis Hilt cover with dice. Picture me stabbing. My life story is a open shirt outfit. We getting money kids. You niggas ain't bout shit.