Key To Life

[Verse 1]
It get no great as me
Even the haters see
I must be eleven hundred if I ain't a G
Before the deal, cuban links or the AMG
Trying to steal Cuban Linx out of HMV
I'm a vet, where's the level of respect?
I do this shit for rec
It was never about a check
Check, I'm that nicer
How could you ever bash Writer?
I wrote rhymes for the jects to have a rap cypher
Facts, biter; you don't have to ask questions
My first battle was against a battle rap legend
You rappers have sessions just to put out dirt
I ain't just put in work, I put out work
Ask Cam though, everything I put out worked
Grown man flow, get anyone you pushed out worked
Knight with the armor, light with the scharma
Which one of y'all don't think Writer's a monster?
I will bomb ya, everything I write you should honor
I had cyphers with Jim when he was driving a Honda
Facts, I'm spitting crack, come buy you a pack
I been bodying cats before they popped up with Smack
Grew up with Rex, Lux; a couple guys that could rap
And killed tracks with Juelz when he was driving a Ac
That's real rap, you ain't tuned into a lame
I'm on Pluto with it mayne
We ain't musically the same! (at all)
How could you explain moving in the game
To a nigga who helped build the biggest movement in the game?
Calling it quits, he don't get rawer than this
Put the corpse in the ditch, just hit record and it's lit
Anytime I'm in the place, divas all on my dick
Bunch of diamonds in the face, Jesus tour on my wrist
Underrated, but your mother favorite
Let the beat breathe, I don't wanna suffocate it

[Verse 2:]
Where's the ambulance? You don't stand a chance
Grams got 'em back and forth, hammer dance
Them old days, hand to hand on Amsterdam
I had a coke wave when French was just a camerman
That ain't a diss, don't be asking me if
I got beef with anybody, these are facts that I spit
I'm passionate bitch, there's passion in these tracks that I rip
You will never be a match because I'm lit, trick
Straight up sick, but they love Rif
Hud 6 told me "Get 'Em" was a straight up hit (R.I.P.)
Them real bars of crack you don't wake up with
I did real songs with Stacks, no made up shits
Shit, how I'm not great, I'm tired of y'all fakes
Come out of y'all face, don't fly to my estate
You know me fam, I ain't got the lot of y'all fakes
I toured Japan off of a couple Writer's Block tapes
Wait, ain't no touching Writer
Y'all a bunch of biters
I ain't passing the blunt, I'll fuck up the cypher
I'm a pro -- you ain't know, now you know
The damn nail salon don't even wanna go toe to toe
But yo, I ain't ya average spitter, I mastered this
Ask your bitch, she been at a nigga way before I had a Twitter
What had happened nigga, we taking this over
I leave him in the clouds if he claim he a smoker
Roller, you could smell the hazy aroma
Smoke enough of this, you'll spend the day in a coma
Different kind of bling, I hang with the owners
Rocks sticking out the ring like Adrien Broner
News break, how you niggas gonna scoop cake?
What you know about getting a quarter mill for two tapes?
I overgrind dummy, being broke is not funny
I put in work, like I need that overtime money
Money, I'm a beast
Understand that seeing me
You better off jumping off the roof and landing on your feet, capiche?
All these other rappers are basic
It's Asics, made me take a nap when they played it
Face it, these cats ain't got the talent to take it
You wasted, with some wack cats on your playlist
I download they tracks to erase it
I think its about time I them back to the greatness