GOOD TO BE HOME II

[Intro]
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

[Verse]
Dead winter in front of my auntie TV
Watching BET, I'm loving the shit I see
The Nas, Hovs, the Jas, the Biggies, the Puns
They dream of making the league, I dream of sillier stuff
School shopping, we hopping from VIM to Conway
And this is right before the internets and MySpace
The Facebooks and IG baddies all up in my face
N64 is how I was spending my days
Park water fountains, I grew up around Italians
Big boss next door quiet, but he moved the loudest
Sitting at the same stoop until he passed
Smoking that cigar, never had a job
Never said a word, never did a verb
Only moved his car from curb to curb
Murder shit occur, he heard it first
In the '90s when people were getting thrown off rooftops
Pop up in canals, helicopters was too hot
My shorty at the time, she was living on New Lots
My best friend was down on Church Ave, like two stops from Prospect Park
Had to be away from Gates Ave before it get dark
Clinton Hill, Fort Greene, where I honed my art
Myrtle Ave, at the Five Spot, I had my start, yeah
Rolling up the freestyle, me and my homie Mark
Chatting 'bout how we gon' be richer than Tony Stark
Sadiq was the Rasta, always rolling it proper
Never really in school and always holding the contra
RIP, brother
We gon' choose to remember you as a peace lover
Where I'm from, everybody got about three mothers
Telling us to be careful, look after each other
In the age of the Twittersphere and the cancel vultures
I am 3D, nigga, you never see me
At this point, I'm a pro and you still running with Pee-wee
Never lose sleep over sheep, I'm
Never rolling over in defeat, I
Don't believe in anything I hear, I
Only trust in half of what I see, I'm
From a dying breed, I'm
Happy that I'm me, I'm
Happy that I found a little peace, I'm
Happy mama kept me out the streets, uh
Big Mike cut me every week
Waves spinning out the chair and the cypher was complete, ah
I'm the son of a hustler
Know when to cash out, keep it going, and double up
Sleep like a breastfed baby inside my comforter
I'm on Myrtle, my brother, alert the trumpeters
Playing spades and cashing up 'til the sun is up
Brooklyn nigga, gon' let you know where we coming from, yeah