April 17th

Yo, Brooklyn monsoon, I drip success, flood greatness,

Six demons sprint when my kicks pivot like a palace.

Pull up where the clique lurk, brick-work, quick jerk

Blick burst, stick curve, hollow tips paint murals.

Left the Smith singin’, name the rest in ink cursive,

Dose ‘em like morphine, Day1 still hurtin’ from the service.

Target practice, y’all glass, I blast past the margin,

Molotov motives, loot folded like origami.

Respect due but the beast eatin’, no vegetarian,

Kail’s calligraphy? Weak scribbles, Damon disappeared like a mirage then.

Hold chrome, blow smoke, every light I flipped was profit,

My pen King Arthur, your blade dull, no Excalibur logic

Look, sucka, I’m Brooklyn’s ghost, phantom grip on the dice game,

Love is chrome, streets is home, I serve fiends like pipe dreams,

Let the block simmer, rap vultures circle like crime scenes,

Paint the town scarlet, name 'em in blood ink, right clean.

See you on Myrtle? I’ll turn your future to urn dreams,

Clap seven techs, Day1 kneels, Kunta’s my wing-tip,

Pride cost legs, now he crawlin’ through king speech,

Definite pencil? Nah, surgeon, I slice with supreme ease.

Flip birds like eagles? I juggle death, C-note treason,

Stab a man’s back just to teach him the meaning of evil,

Monstrous prophets? Dead poets, I resurrect the sequel,

Solve 'em like Sudoku, block shots, leave collars in sequins.

Kerfuffle? Nah, scuffle, I spark flames from a wallet,

Count G’s with dead faces, dig graves like an archaeologist,

Foes get poked, razor etiquette, torch 'em like arsonists,

Flow like a metronome, drum-tight, psychotic logistician.