Watch me get settled and sonically acclimated. A lil rusty, but my vocals untarnished, cuts all D rated. Rap Messiah out the muck and mire, emerged immaculate with bars that’s blacker than that charcoal that’s powdered and activated. This is God talk. Vedas in my vernacular, Surah’s in all of my subtexts, psalms in every pentameter. I’m bout to rule every foot and square inch of the planet’s surrounding perimeter. 2 many Ls and 2 many Ws equated to my present stamina. And I ain’t a quitter. Ain’t your babe, I’m not your sweetie, or your HUN, I’m more like Attila. Might go savage on these samples, leaving them hollow-hand me the filler. Struck a nerve with Forever, never thought that speaking freely could be worth a milli. When the last time a rapper made the people feel a pen(Philippine) homie? Call me Manila. Melanin drip. Coming for everything edible-helluva trip. Every remark I spit designed to end the patriarchy-that’s Oedipal shit. I’m part regal, halfway lethal. Queen Yaa Asantewaa, battling Brits. That’s why my English broken, Ghanaian gold engulfs my mandible’s tips. Wait-I notice you may be a bit confused. My lyric mastery like a can of gasoline after they done lit the fuse. I’m triple Blackness in a post apocalyptic mood. Amassing the survivors into a rather highly gifted brood. I’m unpredictable on these written admissions, I’ll either have rivals bow out or bow their heads in contrition. I’m a visionary, pineal tilted toward the constellations. My holy lyrics got a following like God’s religions. No validation needed. My flow off the meter. I go off on rap tirades and park my name behind Hip Hop’s elite. It’s the only evidence that I need to prove I’m my way. Cuz I hear the people shouting Roc and Ali Bumaye.