There was a genie at the bottom of a Henny bottle. I followed that model. I swallowed and I swaddled until I could no longer follow. She granted me wishes: a family, anarchy from these bitches and, DAMN, these riches. And I had to choose the wishes that I would live with. The rules and the dishes that I was hiding from my mama when I broke in the kitchen. The dope that I'm hitting didn't have me quoting and listening. So I just want to move to the groove while you're listening, hoping this shit is dope

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You got to be amazed. The prophecy is not to be sold. Not even to be put on the stove and distributed it to the block, while n***as just listen to hot shit. What's hot isn't gossip. What's hot is what I live with. Non-stop with a pilot driving my fitted into the sky, and above it. I gotta love it. Somehow it's not a budget. A lot of love given but I am not tolerating nothing wack. I put up with all, because I don't know who fucks with it at all. So I'm stuck like a face up against the wall

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I've been discouraged, malnourished, pure as I can get. Not girl-ing, on top of the world and it's swirling. My curls have been cut. Kind of like my girlfriend when I'm not around, by herself. I've got to clown. I've cause a deep inflection, a depression. I need this to be a lesson. Either that or I need to stop receiving my stress as a blessing. Regardless, I got to live. Even if I can spit hot, hip-hop isn't as positive as what I give

[Chorus]