1ABVE SESSIONS | NAN FIERO

[Verse: Nán Fiero]
Remove the Carhartt fleece, only to reveal the Carhartt tee
They be taking me for my chips like a card-shark scheme
That’s a easy fix like the car part’s cheap
A gifted artist like how interviews with Nardwuar be
What? Too many likes in the verse, random
If she my wife then she might get a purse, and some
Since I was just a lil’ tyke in the church I used to always think my life was the worst
And I was right but I’m finna put that drive in reverse
Shit I might hit the curb
Or I might hit a curveball I might get to third
Then steal home even if I have to slide in the dirt
If ya’ like what ya’ heard I could write you a verse for the right integers
The price is absurd ‘cause I’m priceless for sure
I want the whole pie fuck a slice for dessert
I’m nice that’s my word, yo
I turn a pair of New Balance into No Balance
Same color as my snow jacket, but I don’t match ‘em
The young Cro-Magnon man I’m so handsome
Loverboy, me and these beats be romancing
Under 80bpm we slow-dancing
Riding these WAVs I’m in a boat smashing wit’ no co-captain slapping Bo Jackson
I make ‘em follow every word it’s close-captioned
Folks mad they flow lacking and terrible too, they throw tantrums
No capping when I write it’s all lowercase
If I don’t feel welcome I’ma overstay
I’m fully gassing on a quarter tank, the whip be looking spiffy in a slower lane
Copped the car wash then started pouring rain
Trunk storage space where I hoard the paint, fornicate
When I bust it out spray up them walls, see how that correlate?
It’s sorta late I‘m texting shorty wit’ a gorgeous face
She love to show her cakes knowing I’m overweight, oh behave
I’m Homer Jay at the bar with Moe Szyslak
Wasted like that valuable time I won’t get back
I should be at home in the zone wit’ a cold six-pack
Instead of always tryna go pitch-black
Out the way while my folks chitchat, then wonder why I don’t hit ‘em up
Like old diss tracks, that raw from out the jaw who don’t spit crack?
A breath of fresh air with no Tic-Tacs
Say what the fuck I want don’t hold shit back
And I won’t kick back, unless I’m hanging out with the pris
Them cold winter nights the block remain a thousand degrees
But it’s nothing like two thousand and three
I was 11 home alone I‘d feel like Kevin if my house wasn’t cheap
I’m watching Freddy vs. Jason thinking childish things
Like imaging Freddy Krueger tryna prowl in my dreams
I doubt he’d succeed, them gunshots would always wake me out of my sleep
Before I knew of KRS I knew the sound of police
I’m just sliding on this Alchemist beat
Hoping he send a pack and I don’t mean a pound of some weed
No shame, all propane and no brakes
From your favorite no-name, Nán Fiero baby
Let’s go