The Ghost of Christopher Wallace (clean)

The game ain't been the same since B.I.G died

And Wu swarmed on New York from out that beehive

Don't talk to me bout MC's got skill

Don't talk to me bout whose the king of the hill

Don't talk to me bout whose the best alive

Or whose in your top five, cause he's not ill

Real recognize real, stick to your deal

Try to make a cool mill' off the sin-gle

With that ringtone to appeal, in three years, you'll be nil

Meal by mouth, my appeal down south

Is like the Nation of Islam's when Ali knocked Liston out

A universal change from what appeared as just a bout

All aboard, it's the last train, soul train

A bottle of Ciroc could turn a private jet to Soul Plane

Put your seats back, your tray down and feet up

Cause we about to heat up

From Baton Rouge to Jerusalem, rap crews we bruisin' 'em

Crooked mouth, flat-footed, cops man, we losing them

Let me see some ID, nigga fuck a ID

You been getting head from crackheads in the lobby

Mr. Officer, please observe my skin tone

Please observe the prophecies of hurricane and brimstone

The flow's so Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoy

Half oyster, half shrimp, fully dressed po-boy

Lyrically I'm unfuckwitable, unforgettable, one tough miracle

Competition's none, I leave 'em dumb stuck critical

That some luck, pitiful, better luck next time

We young, black, and restless, hung, black and reckless

My name's on every guest list, I bang on every set list

Went to London town, tore it down and threw my necklace

Even twitter said that Jay Elec be on that next shit

I should be arrested