Yeah, as a kid growin' up in Brooklyn, my pops was a DJ (my pops too)
He had a bunch of records funk, jazz, rhythm and blues, soul (word?)
You know what I'm sayin' (of course)
There was this one gospel record I liked like (which one?), Like

Like holy moly, I might get some religion and leave you holy holy
Yeah, this rhyme is so fat it's rollie pollie
I give you intimate details so you can get to know me
These corporate rappers like, "Why this dude pickin' on me?"
You rap your way to the top, but now it's gettin' lonely
Kids is hungry and you lookin' like a steak from Nick & Toni's
But don't nobody want your jewels, 'cause your shit is phony
Say word? Your shit is real? Damn, your shit is corny
My rhymes turn a new page like Mark Foley and
Touch kids like when Larry Clark gave the part to Chloe
Rest in peace to Harold Hunter, the greatest from New York
Started out skatin' for Zoo York
Word hangin' out at The Gavin, I was very lucky
To talk to Rash' once I got past Derek Dudley
Got him on "Respiration", that's pre-Badu
Bet you Garnett Reid got a Matt Doo tattoo
Sometimes I feel like I'm drownin' I gotta tread water
Head above the water I always remember Headquarters
Heads up, eyes open, I got my mind focused
I find hope inside a line, my rhymes define opus
Sometimes hopeless people, fill my thoughts with evil
My record so hard it broke the needle
At the Mixtape Awards niggas act like they don't give a fuck though
And disrespect the legacy of Justo
What the blood claat? No, let the blood flow
You ain't come to pay your respect, then what you come fo'?
Too many good niggas die, it's like a stop loss
Hood niggas ghetto like fried wings and hot sauce
How you hard? The cops lettin' fifty shots off
Baby Jay-Z's with the knockoff Scott Storch beat
You are not Short, you are not Katt
You're not a player or a pimp, money, stop that
Learn to master your speech and be eloquent
Rappers keep peddlin' sweets, the beats weaker than gelatin
We used to kick up dust, now we settlin'
Rest in peace to Dilla, Weldon, we can't forget you
Professor X and, Proof we miss you, word
Rest in peace to Shaka, twenty one gun salute
In the air like, "BLAKA BLAKA BLAKA"
You're still here 'cause you're livin through me
You're like a gift God has given to me
Uh, uh, uh, what?

Copyright: BMG Rights Management, Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Bernie Taupin, Elton John, Talib Kweli Greene