It's the amba**ador, of rap's ma**acre Preserved with my chest poked out Like I just walked out of Attica, swerve Homie, I ain't mad at ya Do what you do Sick of them tight a** jeans But I don't want to bat at ya Stay in my lane, me and fame, the antidote And oh gee Damn, double visions of Earl Manigo Not just a hot song, not just a sick quote Not just your local sh**, not just above dope, MO