I'm in the wrong fucking place, at the wrong fucking time   Don't worry motherfucker cause I'll still get mine   I know the magnitude of the right attitude   Remember one day you'll be showing me gratitude   Inevitably you will agree, your fragile ego I'm denting   Unnecessary jealousy, why are you resenting   Lucky Boys Confusion ripping leaves off clovers   Adam I'm about to send the limelight over, kid   Well, hello my my how the tables have turned   You got your new style and the tricks that you learned   From me, go let go of the ghetto phase   It's like everybody's trying to earn a buck these days   Ripping off my kids, with your ziplock bags   You think you're rolling now, you need to step the fuck back   We'll take care of Arizona, handle the schwag   Shorty got a brand new bag   When say opportunity knock on me door   Such a shame it's not the music, it's how much they score in their pocket   Now, the band plays I see the dollar sign in your eyes   But guess what Mr. Parasite we can see through all of your lies   I'm rocking mic stands daily, I'm merely   Two blocks away from the venue,   It's not as if you can hear me, clearly   Bringing up on the styles which were ours, nearly   With help from the stars of the past   Enhanced with your modern day melodies   Beats that kick your ass and you agree   I'm not up here to rock the room alone   Stubhystyle pick up the microphone   I'm back by popular demand, some people don't understand   Why I'm laughing fucking up all the shit you planned   Cause your motives weren't true and either were you   Trying to figure out how I do the things I do   A word of advice if you already haven't   Go out, step out, special order some talent   Don't say I'm not a musician cause I can hold my own   And bitch I play the microphone   Ooooh, mama did you hear they want make me superstar   Ooooh, mama did you hear they're gonna make me a star   You seemed startled by the way that I approach the mic   But isn't my tongue spitting out all the things you like   Mixing flavors together like Neapolitan, tight   Clam baking the limousine   He sprinkles on his stardust before he hits the street   A victim of his ego, pop rock society   His gear is nice and trendy; you got your baggy jeans   He's got a few piercings but nothing to extreme   Radio friendly writings is the highway to money   Maybe we'll be stars if we give them what they need   I get twelve percent off the music I make   And the image that they're selling you is fake