"I thought about it the other day, I'm 27 and a half years old my guy. And I never left Brooklyn, left Brooklyn, left Brooklyn, left Brooklyn... I've never been to Staten Island, I've never been to Long Island, never been to no Harlem. And hey man, can I keep it real with you now? I ain't tryin' to leave. I'm never gonna leave. I ain't ever leaving Brooklyn!" One autumn night I caught a flight to Jamaica to get away from all the stresses of life And all the fights I had to break up Brought the studio with me I'm picky about the spots I record in Plus the drones, they got an angel that's fallen [?] I'm on the beach, where my bae definition of cupcake And niggas hatin' them My skin so dark, I look Jamaican Awkwardly dropping patois in my casual conversation On occasion getting further away from the frustrations But so many of my people catch a tough break Stressed like a nigga from New York with a gun case Meanwhile I'm on the island cuttin' dub plates Smokin' weed's more colorful than leaves fallin' upstate Been listenin' to Mac Miller's "Self Care" But still can't keep my mind off of my people welfare That's when I throw on that Dead Prez, "Hell Yeah' Headed to New York, ain't a better vibe elsewhere To write that shit, the real life shit Got every system pumpin' On mamas son, they love it We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter I'm fresher than a New York sling It's so butter how we Write that shit, the real life shit Got every system pumpin' On mamas son, they love us We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter I'm fresher than a New York sling It's so butter how we Goin' number 1 like Pete Rock, the soul brother 2020 bad money I'm running the whole summer That's gold It's the flow like no other And they're lovin' it, like LB and Joe Scudda New Yorkers, we don't concern ourselves with the quorum It's the home of hip hop, the anti-pop consortium Where the cops let off 41 shots without warnin' Kill 'em dead in the street and let the coroner sort 'em Used to spray paint our name, gettin' up to get fame Now our babies comin' out of the womb like, gang gang Back in the day all of that bangin' was a Cali thing You could tell the difference from the New York and the Cali slang I love to write to the clangin' of the train The kids playing on the swing The braap of the gun play The air horn that tell Hasidics it's time to pray The drummin' on Sundays in the park with the sun rays shine down On the hallowed grounds where rap started at My bars are like African artifacts over harder tracks It started back when Phil Sims was a quarterback Still drop and slap to give a young boy a heart attack (Step up your game, son) For the writers and the exciters In between the Twin Towers like the Man on the Wire For the New Yorkers who be drivin' even though the road be fuckin' up their tires This the year we shuttin' down Rikers And I like that shit The real life shit Got every system pumpin' On mamas son, they love it We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter I'm fresher than a New York sling It's so butter how we Write that shit, the real life shit Got every system pumpin' On mamas son, they love us We bakin' them cakes, we cookie cutter I'm fresher than a New York sling It's so butter how we (It's so gutter how we) My pops's 60 and never got a driver's license, B. My nigga—my nigga my father—my father been ridin' the train since fuckin' '72 nigga.