I’m a product of them projects—
copper tops still ringin’ in my cerebellum.
Grammy on the shelf, but the belt still buckle
like a noose in the cell—who let the cell sell ‘em?
Compton hubcaps spin like a sermon,
every spoke a quote from a corpse we’re servin’.
I ghost-ride the trauma, tint the armor,
paint the karma candy-apple—
still got the Holy Ghost in the backseat,
tappin’ on the glass: “Recite your own eulogy, fast.”
I baptize the bass line, drown the mainstream,
come up coughin’ up platinum plaque and chlorine.