We Live This Shit

[Intro: Mr. Metaphor]
Yeah, yeah. One time. Uh huh. Yo. Check it out (Yeah). Yo (Yo), yo, yo

[Verse 1: Mr. Metaphor]
Sometime I question, “Is God really there or not?”
I still swear to rep hard everywhere I rock
Talking shit about my squad when you scared of Block
You the shit under the ground that we stand on top
I’ll make you listen to the sound with a handgun cocked
The Ac’ unsigned, a hundred thousand fans on lock
Independent, motherfuckers. We got plans to plot
Looking at the big picture for that landing spot
And when it drop, it gonna hit you like “Planet Rock”
We’ll be them cats on your speakers when your answer’s hot
We’ll be them cats on the avenue that ran your block
Stupid Brooklyn motherfuckers taking pants and socks
And, yo, I don’t give a fuck about no transit cop
I’m coming, charging through this shit like I’m Lancelot
Stay the fuck inside the water ‘cause the sand is hot
And I’ma burn all your fam and any man you got
I spit hollow-tip words that’ll jam your Glock
And I could hit any target—pick a random spot
And I’ma walk the whole desert ‘til the camel drop
Stronghold the industry and you could stand and watch

[Verse 2: Pumpkinhead]
My flow is top-notch. I’m like a Sasquatch
When I spit game on tracks, I’ll make you jump like hopscotch
I don’t rock rocks. But when my shit drop
I’ma put ice in my stopwatch. Like Rerun, I pop locks
Off the door. Talk the talk ‘til I can’t walk no more
My shit swish all night—never off the boards
I’m a/I’ma rock like crack cocaine
And I’ll spit dope shit it cracks y’all brain
I’m like Moses to the ghetto with a robe and a staff
And strike down those who worship the [golden cab?]
False idols claim they God and don’t know the math
Them niggas is little fishes in big-mouth bass
They got big cash but they light in the ass
Don’t get mad. Yo, I’m just a light from your past
I’m a underground cat who got the mic in a smash
It’s Brooklyn Ac’, niggas. We got the game tight in our grab
And we serious as a lifetime bid
With no conjugal visits. I’m just dropping my vision
Together, we live it ‘til we dead. Then we rise again
With the four horsemen image eight days after Christmas

[Hook: Mr. Metaphor and (I-See-On)] (x2)
From the birth to the death, (son, we live this shit)
On a search, on a quest, (out to get this shit)
Whether we broke or we rich, (yo, we live this shit)
And we ain’t never gonna rest (‘til we get this shit)

[Verse 3: Block McCloud]
Our flows tight like white knuckles, eat you like dyke lovers
In tight covers. We taking flight like the Wright brothers
Our type covering this craft like a hovercraft
While motherfuckers get lost like rubber ducks in bubble baths
I’ll be butterbean gluttony, you fat fucker
You’ll get ate like the body of Christ—it’s your Last Supper
You’re roadkill. I’m a redneck, mad trucker
You’re no skill—bro, your whole flow’s lackluster
No shine. You’ll get cut off like phone lines
Your ho’s mine. I dug her out like the coalmine
The start of my lines will slaughter you low budget dime recorders
I’m in just as you in a diner, ordering water
Run for high ground and find now, so we gon’ fire rounds
‘Cause you be lying on the ground, making dying sounds
My firm is the Ac’. Give ‘em the shirt off my back
Murderous tracks, in mercy, clap you as a courteous act

[Verse 4: I-See-On]
Well, I’ve been writing for days. Icon turning night to the day
Lyrically 2.2 million light years away
And I’m not gonna stop until there ice on the grave
I’m twenty-two years old now, nigga. Nice for my age
I feel like I’m looking at life through the eyes of a slave
The shit that I write will leave your head light in a daze
Reciting a page just like you [?]
I definitely blow. Brooklyn Ac’ inherit the throne
Together we rise, together we fall, together we die
Forever it’s on when you live for a cause
You gotta tycoon it. I’m the illest nigga on two legs
I peeped your movement. I seen it all through a zoom lens
Cover loose ends. I spit like a man with two heads
Brooklyn Academy go down in history a classic act like Paul Newman
When I was young, I ain’t give a fuck what them broads were doing
Fuck hoes. Most of these rappers ain’t never touched dough
Guns and .44 alarms, they never clutched those
Fuck y’all, I’m blowing it up. Niggas is buckwild
Dumb out, cave in your ribs, punching your lungs out
Guns out, aim at the top until the sun’s out

[Hook: Mr. Metaphor and (I-See-On)] (x2)
From the birth to the death, (son, we live this shit)
On a search, on a quest, (out to get this shit)
Whether we broke or we rich, (yo, we live this shit)
And we ain’t never gonna rest (‘til we get this shit)