[Verse 1]
My granny used to prick her fingers back when she was picking cotton
Now I'm picking cotton shirts, just for me to rock em
Like they threw scissors but I'm still throwin paper out
I take it to another level, elevator route
Ridin out, windows low keep my music high
Cruise till I crash like Vanilla Sky
Gil Scott-Heron died, revolution won't be televised
I tell more vision 'cause my television tellin lies
Sugar coated like the bottom of the kool-aid made
By my cousin, fools buy j**els to prove they paid
Doin' dirt for clean kicks, whip the whips like a master