Sangtekst: Jay Electronica. The Ghost Of Christopher Wallace.

[feat. P Diddy]

[Verse 1: Jay Electronica]
The game ain't been the same since B.I.G died
And Wu swarmed on New York from out that beehive
Don't talk to me bout MC's got skill
Don't talk to me bout whose the king of the hill
Don't talk to me bout whose the best alive or whose in your top 5
Cause he's not I'll
Real recognize real, stick to your deal
Try to make a cool mill off the single
With that ringtone appeal
In 3 years, you'll be nil
Meal by mouth, my appeal down south
Is like the nation of Islam's when Ali knocked Liston out
A universal change from what appeared as just about
All aboard, It's the last train, soul train
A bottle of ciroc could turn a private jet to soulplane
Put your seats back, your tray down and feet up
Cause we about to heat up

[Verse 2:]
From Baton Rouge to Jerusalem
Rap crews we bruisin' em
Crooked mouth, flat footed
Cops man we losing them
Let me see some ID, nigga fuck a ID
You been getting head from crackheads in the lobby
Mr. Officer, please observe my skintone
Please observe the prophecies of hurricane and brimstone
The flow's so Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoy
Half oyster, half shrimp, fully dressed po-boy
Lyrically I'm unfuckwitable, unforgettable
One tough miracle, competition's none
I leave em dumb stuck critical, that some luck, pitiful
Better luck next time
We young, black, and restless
Hung, black and wreckless
My name's on every guestlist
I bang on every setlist
Went to London town, tore it down and threw my necklace
Even twitter said that Jay Elec be on that next shit
I should be arrested

[Diddy Ad libs]