I flow gasoline and spit oil
cause- there's no mastering these rich spoils
of fire- to make these kids boil
when I turnover eighteen on thick soil
and weight stays movin'
like freight trains cruisin'
gotta flip n' push this liquid kush
in eight great movements
in your state - nine to five, like
interstate - ninety-five
on the east coast, with the most
sinners raised to ride or die
I ride to fly, on broken wings
my pride beside my coat and rings
from a pro bowl, where barred means no holds
and a low blow, is wet tar on a slow road
start where the planes land, end where the boats go
all with stained hands, an hour for ten at Sunoco.
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