I'm in the wrong fucking place, at the wrong fucking time
    Don't worry motherfucker cause I'll still get mine
    I know the magnitude of the right attitude
    Remember one day you'll be showing me gratitude
    Inevitably you will agree, your fragile ego I'm denting
    Unnecessary jealousy, why are you resenting
    Lucky Boys Confusion ripping leaves off clovers
    Adam I'm about to send the limelight over, kid
    Well, hello my my how the tables have turned
    You got your new style and the tricks that you learned
    From me, go let go of the ghetto phase
    It's like everybody's trying to earn a buck these days
    Ripping off my kids, with your ziplock bags
    You think you're rolling now, you need to step the fuck back
    We'll take care of Arizona, handle the schwag
    Shorty got a brand new bag
    When say opportunity knock on me door
    Such a shame it's not the music, it's how much they score in their pocket
    Now, the band plays I see the dollar sign in your eyes
    But guess what Mr. Parasite we can see through all of your lies
    I'm rocking mic stands daily, I'm merely
    Two blocks away from the venue,
    It's not as if you can hear me, clearly
    Bringing up on the styles which were ours, nearly
    With help from the stars of the past
    Enhanced with your modern day melodies
    Beats that kick your ass and you agree
    I'm not up here to rock the room alone
    Stubhystyle pick up the microphone
    I'm back by popular demand, some people don't understand
    Why I'm laughing fucking up all the shit you planned
    Cause your motives weren't true and either were you
    Trying to figure out how I do the things I do
    A word of advice if you already haven't
    Go out, step out, special order some talent
    Don't say I'm not a musician cause I can hold my own
    And bitch I play the microphone
    Ooooh, mama did you hear they want make me superstar
    Ooooh, mama did you hear they're gonna make me a star
    You seemed startled by the way that I approach the mic
    But isn't my tongue spitting out all the things you like
    Mixing flavors together like Neapolitan, tight
    Clam baking the limousine
    He sprinkles on his stardust before he hits the street
    A victim of his ego, pop rock society
    His gear is nice and trendy; you got your baggy jeans
    He's got a few piercings but nothing to extreme
    Radio friendly writings is the highway to money
    Maybe we'll be stars if we give them what they need
    I get twelve percent off the music I make
    And the image that they're selling you is fake