Crowns for Kings

[Intro: Benny the Butcher] Uh, every king will be crowned Trust me Uh [Verse 1: Benny the Butcher] This marathon shit, so let's see who first to the finish If it's less than a hundred racks, it don't deserve your attention 'Cause burdens come with it, my second test was servin' a sentence My first was make a brick jump like it was hurdlin' fences Certainly, my last shit was a courtesy, nigga And further, we had bustdowns before you heard of me, nigga Shoeboxes stacked with racks sittin' vertically in 'em I'm fresh out of luck, I'm here 'cause I deserve to be, nigga I sat back, a vet, and watched beginners winnin' my belts Burned my bridges, came back a good swimmer like Phelps You know the feeling, young black male, what y'all dealin'? Take your whole life to get it, it only last you a minute In the kitchen countin' cash with cats with backward agendas Put a Benz in the brick, then toss it back in the blender That was us, next to a big like I was Puff The good die young, all the OGs thirty and up In Alexander McQueen kicks just to dirty 'em up Money tree, branches break when they not sturdy enough, uh See, I was good with the bad guy role Water in my jewels, put 'em on and baptize hoes Walk in my shoes, we got Shaq-sized soles (Huh) We flatline those wack rap niggas wearin' half-sized clothes What's the dealy? I'm only 'bout six hours from Philly That's an hour on the plane, I'll make it three in the Bentley My bitch keep sayin' I'm famous, but it ain't hit me I'm too ghetto, mellowed out, this Hollywood shit tricky See, before I knew an A&R, I was weighin' hard Back when Nicki Minaj was in a trainin' bra You play this game, you better play it hard The judge'll give you life and later that day, he gon' be playin' golf I'm from that era, we don't pay it if you weighed it wrong Back when your parents got your baby shoes plated bronze We took hip-hop and made it ours I sold quarters, just so happens I'm the author of your favorite songs They bullshitted me, I played along More bars than them niggas who got hit with the Reagan laws Let's go [Verse 2: Black Thought] Yo, when we was hooked in the hood, gettin' booked like literature Kept us shook, like when the boogieman comin' to get ya We was crooks, tryna cop more rides than Great Adventure Any image we took, not a father was in the picture There was times, not a bite nor swallow was in the kitchen Real niggas made a industry out of they intuition Facin' the darkest outcome, sprintin' to outrun the reaper Trying not to be the food in the mouth of the beast For whom the bell tolls Crown kings in Adidas suits and shell toes We had to throw a lot of body blows and elbows Wishin' we could get from Snyder Ave to Melrose Without the Dapper Dan bodybags and jail clothes That warned niggas not to lollygag when Hell rose We railroaded through the thicker things for gold chains and chicken change No one throwin' flames, there's growin' pains when in the game And the blow, ashes in the snow, it's no remains Push the wheel as fast as it could go, we overcame the obstacles But when you official, the block miss you Even if the old crew choose not to rock with you We was blue-black, stuck in the glue trap I had to pull my own self up by the bootstrap Where everybody play they own part like a tooth gap And old heads teach the young hitters to shoot back I been livin' proof that the pressure make precious stones And real Clarence Avants remain lesser known But anybody who question you, send a message to 'em I see my seat at the table to be a blessed throne Triumph and tragedy, his majesty muscle never atrophied The devil is a casualty, sucker, you're never catchin' me Even though you been after me, motherfucker You gotta bring a army to harm me, I occupy the capacity up Decapitator of a hater in this modern day My dossier no less, dealer spray Courvoisier I'm Jean-Paul Gaultier, Tom Ford, and Cartier Self-made, I fly vintage from the sommelier On reserve, flowin' from the blackest fountain It's all love from public housin' to the Atlas Mountains I've established the average to always bat a thousand So after butcherin' this track, it's back to countin' The money generated from me leavin' microphones broke Probably almost on par with all of Escobar's coke When I'm finished, I'ma keep a tennis shoe on y'all throat Just in case you mention in a interview you want smoke, nigga Two Fifteen