Allah

[Malcolm X intro]

[Benjamin Starr]
Uh, its Allah.. Uh, it's Allah.. it's Allah

Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Islam
Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Wisdom
My neck, wrists riddled with ice these lights hit on
Half wise man and Heisman, stiff arm
Blue collar emcee, White collar capable
The prodigy, the Pac in me, quality rap ratio
Amused, but confused where to put y'all
Something like the 'Cak meeting 3 Stacks
And a Black Johnny Football

I learned from a nigga sipping Schlitz malt liquor
Eating rice and cube steaks, banging Ice Cube tapes
My cards are face value, stack decks like Aztecs
I can rap 20 12’s if I have to
I’m proof, niggas chasing me
Master level masonry, 33 degrees in the breeze, no sleeves
I flame Jamaican weed, please pray for me
New God flow, brings the shadiest Atheists to the Papacy

I’m Richard Pryor on Sunset, you guessed it
Show so dope, your nose tingles, red suit – single breasted
I could rock Barclays in Penny Hardaways’
With the backdrop of a Minister Malcolm X message
This is real rap and I’m inclined to spit
Black scientific, every lyric reads vivid like the hieroglyphs
It’s truth in my literature, I’ve got a flare for it
You sharp-shoot in the booth, my flow is like the Figure 4

I’ve got this rap on tap, it’s no basic brew
Sobering, no contact, I got lasik view
Fort Knox, gold grill, niggas faces Blue
On your block I’m like Spock in that spaceship coupe
Futuristic, I spewed it and views shifted
Truth is, I stand accused, I tutored the youth different
The Black Bob Fischer, I check chess so often
At best I get 'Shakespearesque' when shit talking

Tell me why I need a Basquiat, when every bar I drop is art?
All my abstract strokes for Black folks
Steady hands paint revivals, I ain’t color blind
So I color mine with Scott Heron, Bobby Bland vinyls
I don’t own a Rembrandt or Warhol
Just Romare Bearden, those collages on the walls of my conscience
I am never rattled, I withstand shots
Child of survival, I was Stokely Carmichael in the sandbox

The shit I unsheathe, for deaf streets
The second I bless beats
Is just a bit fresher than chef’s quiche
Undefeated, blending the Blues with a lit fuse
Please excuse the Don Shula in, my maneuvering
All my shit classic, I put the 'Cak in a casket
I agitated the flames and I resurrected the ashes
This is God work through a sinner
Every line, every rhyme, know I sign, Bobby Seale and deliver

Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Islam
Arm, Leg, Leg, my Arm, Head, that’s Wisdom
My neck, wrists riddled with ice these lights hit on
Half wise man and Heisman, stiff arm
Never need a control verse for shit that I controlled first
I give truth to dying ears, salute the pioneers
Relaxed in the plush leather with the lights down
Mr. Taylor playing “Shoot that Fucka' Right Now”
This is Free Lunch