[{"id":30300681,"name":"Beautiful Gravesites","trackName":"Beautiful Gravesites","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"No Rest For The Wicked","duration":284.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I ain't gon' play with you\nYeah\n\nMade this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\nIt's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\nI bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\nSold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\nLine of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\nWhole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\nPast lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\nAnd I never had to blow like the brass section\nI just knew I would win as a hood kid\nBut growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\nJust more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\nBut this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\nA good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\nAsk the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\nMy bars be God level, they blasphemy\nWith the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\nThem stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\nThey had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\nHow I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\nIf you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\nBad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\nTo the bottom as quick as they blow\nFrown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\nThem bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\nIn the middle of strife, I appear calm\nSame shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\nDon't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\nGet flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\nA clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\nSame words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\nI'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\nStand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\nYour bars are misguided\n\nEstablished niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\nIt's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\nWhen I spit, I give you that corner feel\nYou nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\nFor niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\nIt's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\nExplore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\nSome brave grave diggers, yay flippers\nCampaignin' on a ballot like Ye\nNigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\nYeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\nWhat they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\nMy vision splattered with blood\nMy wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\nRemember, those who judge should never matter to you\nAnd those who matter would never judge\n\nI knew closed caskets before open doors\n\nFrom where crackheads crack heads and open sores\nWhere they killed for power until ghosts would form\nHomies I'm supposed to mourn\nBut pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\nWhere they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\nGrew up cold, but I never froze\nToo much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\nDeath was king and guns was crowned\nMurder was retirement\n\nAnd I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\nBut my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\nLivin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\nDidn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\nThat's nine millimeter\nI was nine meters away from Millers\nGrandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n'Cause now I get cheers and raise\nThe bar, I don't know what to call it\nCouldn't care if I'm relatable\nJake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\nNever too comfortable though\nYou can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\nAlpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\nI don't brag, I breathe\nI'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\nI inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\nSent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\nThe street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\nHeavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\nThis ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Beautiful Gravesites\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: No Rest For The Wicked\n  duration_ms: 284000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I ain't gon' play with you\n  Yeah\n\n  Made this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\n  It's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\n  I bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\n  Sold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\n  Line of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\n  Whole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\n  Past lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\n  And I never had to blow like the brass section\n  I just knew I would win as a hood kid\n  But growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\n  Just more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\n  But this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\n  A good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\n  Ask the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\n  My bars be God level, they blasphemy\n  With the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\n  Them stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\n  They had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\n  How I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\n  If you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\n  Bad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\n  To the bottom as quick as they blow\n  Frown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\n  Them bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\n  In the middle of strife, I appear calm\n  Same shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\n  Don't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\n  Get flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\n  A clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\n  Same words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\n  I'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\n  Stand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\n  Your bars are misguided\n\n  Established niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\n  It's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\n  When I spit, I give you that corner feel\n  You nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\n  For niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\n  It's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\n  Explore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n  'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\n  Some brave grave diggers, yay flippers\n  Campaignin' on a ballot like Ye\n  Nigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\n  Yeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\n  What they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\n  My vision splattered with blood\n  My wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\n  Remember, those who judge should never matter to you\n  And those who matter would never judge\n\n  I knew closed caskets before open doors\n\n  From where crackheads crack heads and open sores\n  Where they killed for power until ghosts would form\n  Homies I'm supposed to mourn\n  But pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\n  Where they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\n  Grew up cold, but I never froze\n  Too much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n  'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\n  Death was king and guns was crowned\n  Murder was retirement\n\n  And I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\n  But my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\n  Livin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\n  Didn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\n  That's nine millimeter\n  I was nine meters away from Millers\n  Grandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n  'Cause now I get cheers and raise\n  The bar, I don't know what to call it\n  Couldn't care if I'm relatable\n  Jake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\n  Never too comfortable though\n  You can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\n  Alpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\n  I don't brag, I breathe\n  I'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\n  I inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\n  Sent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\n  The street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\n  Heavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\n  This ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes\n"},{"id":35837679,"name":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","trackName":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"No Rest for the Wicked","duration":284.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I ain't gon' play with you\nYeah\n\nMade this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\nIt's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\nI bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\nSold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\nLine of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\nWhole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\nPast lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\nAnd I never had to blow like the brass section\nI just knew I would win as a hood kid\nBut growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\nJust more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\nBut this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\nA good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\nAsk the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\nMy bars be God level, they blasphemy\nWith the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\nThem stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\nThey had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\nHow I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\nIf you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\nBad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\nTo the bottom as quick as they blow\nFrown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\nThem bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\nIn the middle of strife, I appear calm\nSame shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\nDon't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\nGet flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\nA clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\nSame words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\nI'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\nStand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\nYour bars are misguided\n\nEstablished niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\nIt's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\nWhen I spit, I give you that corner feel\nYou nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\nFor niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\nIt's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\nExplore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\nSome brave grave diggers, yay flippers\nCampaignin' on a ballot like Ye\nNigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\nYeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\nWhat they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\nMy vision splattered with blood\nMy wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\nRemember, those who judge should never matter to you\nAnd those who matter would never judge\n\nI knew closed caskets before open doors\n\nFrom where crackheads crack heads and open sores\nWhere they killed for power until ghosts would form\nHomies I'm supposed to mourn\nBut pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\nWhere they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\nGrew up cold, but I never froze\nToo much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\nDeath was king and guns was crowned\nMurder was retirement\n\nAnd I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\nBut my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\nLivin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\nDidn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\nThat's nine millimeter\nI was nine meters away from Millers\nGrandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n'Cause now I get cheers and raise\nThe bar, I don't know what to call it\nCouldn't care if I'm relatable\nJake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\nNever too comfortable though\nYou can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\nAlpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\nI don't brag, I breathe\nI'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\nI inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\nSent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\nThe street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\nHeavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\nThis ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: No Rest for the Wicked\n  duration_ms: 284000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I ain't gon' play with you\n  Yeah\n\n  Made this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\n  It's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\n  I bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\n  Sold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\n  Line of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\n  Whole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\n  Past lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\n  And I never had to blow like the brass section\n  I just knew I would win as a hood kid\n  But growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\n  Just more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\n  But this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\n  A good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\n  Ask the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\n  My bars be God level, they blasphemy\n  With the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\n  Them stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\n  They had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\n  How I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\n  If you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\n  Bad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\n  To the bottom as quick as they blow\n  Frown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\n  Them bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\n  In the middle of strife, I appear calm\n  Same shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\n  Don't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\n  Get flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\n  A clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\n  Same words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\n  I'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\n  Stand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\n  Your bars are misguided\n\n  Established niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\n  It's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\n  When I spit, I give you that corner feel\n  You nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\n  For niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\n  It's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\n  Explore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n  'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\n  Some brave grave diggers, yay flippers\n  Campaignin' on a ballot like Ye\n  Nigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\n  Yeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\n  What they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\n  My vision splattered with blood\n  My wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\n  Remember, those who judge should never matter to you\n  And those who matter would never judge\n\n  I knew closed caskets before open doors\n\n  From where crackheads crack heads and open sores\n  Where they killed for power until ghosts would form\n  Homies I'm supposed to mourn\n  But pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\n  Where they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\n  Grew up cold, but I never froze\n  Too much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n  'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\n  Death was king and guns was crowned\n  Murder was retirement\n\n  And I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\n  But my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\n  Livin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\n  Didn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\n  That's nine millimeter\n  I was nine meters away from Millers\n  Grandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n  'Cause now I get cheers and raise\n  The bar, I don't know what to call it\n  Couldn't care if I'm relatable\n  Jake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\n  Never too comfortable though\n  You can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\n  Alpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\n  I don't brag, I breathe\n  I'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\n  I inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\n  Sent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\n  The street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\n  Heavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\n  This ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes\n"},{"id":35837684,"name":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","trackName":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"No Rest for the Wicked","duration":287.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I ain't gon' play with you\nYeah\n\nMade this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\nIt's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\nI bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\nSold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\nLine of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\nWhole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\nPast lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\nAnd I never had to blow like the brass section\nI just knew I would win as a hood kid\nBut growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\nJust more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\nBut this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\nA good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\nAsk the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\nMy bars be God level, they blasphemy\nWith the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\nThem stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\nThey had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\nHow I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\nIf you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\nBad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\nTo the bottom as quick as they blow\nFrown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\nThem bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\nIn the middle of strife, I appear calm\nSame shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\nDon't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\nGet flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\nA clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\nSame words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\nI'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\nStand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\nYour bars are misguided\n\nEstablished niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\nIt's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\nWhen I spit, I give you that corner feel\nYou nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\nFor niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\nIt's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\nExplore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\nSome brave grave diggers, yay flippers\nCampaignin' on a ballot like Ye\nNigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\nYeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\nWhat they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\nMy vision splattered with blood\nMy wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\nRemember, those who judge should never matter to you\nAnd those who matter would never judge\n\nI knew closed caskets before open doors\n\nFrom where crackheads crack heads and open sores\nWhere they killed for power until ghosts would form\nHomies I'm supposed to mourn\nBut pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\nWhere they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\nGrew up cold, but I never froze\nToo much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\nDeath was king and guns was crowned\nMurder was retirement\n\nAnd I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\nBut my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\nLivin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\nDidn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\nThat's nine millimeter\nI was nine meters away from Millers\nGrandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n'Cause now I get cheers and raise\nThe bar, I don't know what to call it\nCouldn't care if I'm relatable\nJake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\nNever too comfortable though\nYou can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\nAlpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\nI don't brag, I breathe\nI'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\nI inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\nSent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\nThe street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\nHeavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\nThis ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: No Rest for the Wicked\n  duration_ms: 287000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I ain't gon' play with you\n  Yeah\n\n  Made this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\n  It's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\n  I bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\n  Sold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\n  Line of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\n  Whole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\n  Past lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\n  And I never had to blow like the brass section\n  I just knew I would win as a hood kid\n  But growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\n  Just more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\n  But this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\n  A good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\n  Ask the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\n  My bars be God level, they blasphemy\n  With the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\n  Them stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\n  They had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\n  How I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\n  If you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\n  Bad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\n  To the bottom as quick as they blow\n  Frown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\n  Them bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\n  In the middle of strife, I appear calm\n  Same shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\n  Don't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\n  Get flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\n  A clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\n  Same words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\n  I'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\n  Stand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\n  Your bars are misguided\n\n  Established niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\n  It's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\n  When I spit, I give you that corner feel\n  You nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\n  For niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\n  It's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\n  Explore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n  'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\n  Some brave grave diggers, yay flippers\n  Campaignin' on a ballot like Ye\n  Nigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\n  Yeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\n  What they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\n  My vision splattered with blood\n  My wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\n  Remember, those who judge should never matter to you\n  And those who matter would never judge\n\n  I knew closed caskets before open doors\n\n  From where crackheads crack heads and open sores\n  Where they killed for power until ghosts would form\n  Homies I'm supposed to mourn\n  But pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\n  Where they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\n  Grew up cold, but I never froze\n  Too much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n  'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\n  Death was king and guns was crowned\n  Murder was retirement\n\n  And I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\n  But my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\n  Livin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\n  Didn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\n  That's nine millimeter\n  I was nine meters away from Millers\n  Grandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n  'Cause now I get cheers and raise\n  The bar, I don't know what to call it\n  Couldn't care if I'm relatable\n  Jake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\n  Never too comfortable though\n  You can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\n  Alpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\n  I don't brag, I breathe\n  I'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\n  I inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\n  Sent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\n  The street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\n  Heavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\n  This ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes\n"},{"id":35837678,"name":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","trackName":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"No Rest for the Wicked","duration":285.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I ain't gon' play with you\nYeah\n\nMade this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\nIt's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\nI bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\nSold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\nLine of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\nWhole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\nPast lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\nAnd I never had to blow like the brass section\nI just knew I would win as a hood kid\nBut growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\nJust more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\nBut this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\nA good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\nAsk the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\nMy bars be God level, they blasphemy\nWith the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\nThem stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\nThey had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\nHow I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\nIf you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\nBad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\nTo the bottom as quick as they blow\nFrown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\nThem bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\nIn the middle of strife, I appear calm\nSame shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\nDon't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\nGet flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\nA clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\nSame words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\nI'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\nStand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\nYour bars are misguided\n\nEstablished niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\nIt's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\nWhen I spit, I give you that corner feel\nYou nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\nFor niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\nIt's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\nExplore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\nSome brave grave diggers, yay flippers\nCampaignin' on a ballot like Ye\nNigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\nYeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\nWhat they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\nMy vision splattered with blood\nMy wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\nRemember, those who judge should never matter to you\nAnd those who matter would never judge\n\nI knew closed caskets before open doors\n\nFrom where crackheads crack heads and open sores\nWhere they killed for power until ghosts would form\nHomies I'm supposed to mourn\nBut pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\nWhere they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\nGrew up cold, but I never froze\nToo much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\nDeath was king and guns was crowned\nMurder was retirement\n\nAnd I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\nBut my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\nLivin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\nDidn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\nThat's nine millimeter\nI was nine meters away from Millers\nGrandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n'Cause now I get cheers and raise\nThe bar, I don't know what to call it\nCouldn't care if I'm relatable\nJake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\nNever too comfortable though\nYou can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\nAlpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\nI don't brag, I breathe\nI'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\nI inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\nSent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\nThe street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\nHeavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\nThis ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: No Rest for the Wicked\n  duration_ms: 285000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I ain't gon' play with you\n  Yeah\n\n  Made this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\n  It's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\n  I bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\n  Sold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\n  Line of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\n  Whole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\n  Past lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\n  And I never had to blow like the brass section\n  I just knew I would win as a hood kid\n  But growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\n  Just more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\n  But this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\n  A good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\n  Ask the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\n  My bars be God level, they blasphemy\n  With the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\n  Them stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\n  They had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\n  How I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\n  If you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\n  Bad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\n  To the bottom as quick as they blow\n  Frown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\n  Them bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\n  In the middle of strife, I appear calm\n  Same shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\n  Don't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\n  Get flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\n  A clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\n  Same words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\n  I'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\n  Stand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\n  Your bars are misguided\n\n  Established niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\n  It's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\n  When I spit, I give you that corner feel\n  You nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\n  For niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\n  It's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\n  Explore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n  'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\n  Some brave grave diggers, yay flippers\n  Campaignin' on a ballot like Ye\n  Nigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\n  Yeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\n  What they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\n  My vision splattered with blood\n  My wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\n  Remember, those who judge should never matter to you\n  And those who matter would never judge\n\n  I knew closed caskets before open doors\n\n  From where crackheads crack heads and open sores\n  Where they killed for power until ghosts would form\n  Homies I'm supposed to mourn\n  But pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\n  Where they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\n  Grew up cold, but I never froze\n  Too much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n  'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\n  Death was king and guns was crowned\n  Murder was retirement\n\n  And I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\n  But my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\n  Livin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\n  Didn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\n  That's nine millimeter\n  I was nine meters away from Millers\n  Grandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n  'Cause now I get cheers and raise\n  The bar, I don't know what to call it\n  Couldn't care if I'm relatable\n  Jake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\n  Never too comfortable though\n  You can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\n  Alpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\n  I don't brag, I breathe\n  I'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\n  I inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\n  Sent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\n  The street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\n  Heavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\n  This ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes\n"},{"id":35837704,"name":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","trackName":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"No Rest for the Wicked","duration":280.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I ain't gon' play with you\nYeah\n\nMade this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\nIt's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\nI bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\nSold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\nLine of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\nWhole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\nPast lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\nAnd I never had to blow like the brass section\nI just knew I would win as a hood kid\nBut growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\nJust more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\nBut this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\nA good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\nAsk the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\nMy bars be God level, they blasphemy\nWith the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\nThem stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\nThey had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\nHow I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\nIf you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\nBad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\nTo the bottom as quick as they blow\nFrown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\nThem bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\nIn the middle of strife, I appear calm\nSame shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\nDon't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\nGet flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\nA clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\nSame words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\nI'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\nStand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\nYour bars are misguided\n\nEstablished niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\nIt's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\nWhen I spit, I give you that corner feel\nYou nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\nFor niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\nIt's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\nExplore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\nSome brave grave diggers, yay flippers\nCampaignin' on a ballot like Ye\nNigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\nYeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\nWhat they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\nMy vision splattered with blood\nMy wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\nRemember, those who judge should never matter to you\nAnd those who matter would never judge\n\nI knew closed caskets before open doors\n\nFrom where crackheads crack heads and open sores\nWhere they killed for power until ghosts would form\nHomies I'm supposed to mourn\nBut pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\nWhere they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\nGrew up cold, but I never froze\nToo much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\nDeath was king and guns was crowned\nMurder was retirement\n\nAnd I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\nBut my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\nLivin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\nDidn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\nThat's nine millimeter\nI was nine meters away from Millers\nGrandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n'Cause now I get cheers and raise\nThe bar, I don't know what to call it\nCouldn't care if I'm relatable\nJake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\nNever too comfortable though\nYou can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\nAlpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\nI don't brag, I breathe\nI'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\nI inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\nSent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\nThe street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\nHeavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\nThis ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Beautiful Gravesites (feat. Black Chakra & J. Arrr)\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: No Rest for the Wicked\n  duration_ms: 280000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I ain't gon' play with you\n  Yeah\n\n  Made this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\n  It's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\n  I bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\n  Sold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\n  Line of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\n  Whole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\n  Past lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\n  And I never had to blow like the brass section\n  I just knew I would win as a hood kid\n  But growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\n  Just more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\n  But this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\n  A good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\n  Ask the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\n  My bars be God level, they blasphemy\n  With the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\n  Them stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\n  They had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\n  How I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\n  If you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\n  Bad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\n  To the bottom as quick as they blow\n  Frown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\n  Them bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\n  In the middle of strife, I appear calm\n  Same shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\n  Don't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\n  Get flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\n  A clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\n  Same words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\n  I'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\n  Stand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\n  Your bars are misguided\n\n  Established niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\n  It's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\n  When I spit, I give you that corner feel\n  You nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\n  For niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\n  It's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\n  Explore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n  'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\n  Some brave grave diggers, yay flippers\n  Campaignin' on a ballot like Ye\n  Nigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\n  Yeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\n  What they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\n  My vision splattered with blood\n  My wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\n  Remember, those who judge should never matter to you\n  And those who matter would never judge\n\n  I knew closed caskets before open doors\n\n  From where crackheads crack heads and open sores\n  Where they killed for power until ghosts would form\n  Homies I'm supposed to mourn\n  But pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\n  Where they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\n  Grew up cold, but I never froze\n  Too much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n  'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\n  Death was king and guns was crowned\n  Murder was retirement\n\n  And I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\n  But my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\n  Livin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\n  Didn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\n  That's nine millimeter\n  I was nine meters away from Millers\n  Grandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n  'Cause now I get cheers and raise\n  The bar, I don't know what to call it\n  Couldn't care if I'm relatable\n  Jake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\n  Never too comfortable though\n  You can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\n  Alpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\n  I don't brag, I breathe\n  I'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\n  I inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\n  Sent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\n  The street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\n  Heavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\n  This ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes\n"},{"id":28768313,"name":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. J. Arrr & Black Chakra)","trackName":"Beautiful Gravesites (feat. J. Arrr & Black Chakra)","artistName":"Ransom","albumName":"No Rest for the Wicked","duration":284.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"I ain't gon' play with you\nYeah\n\nMade this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\nIt's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\nI bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\nSold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\nLine of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\nWhole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\nPast lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\nAnd I never had to blow like the brass section\nI just knew I would win as a hood kid\nBut growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\nJust more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\nBut this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\nA good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\nAsk the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\nMy bars be God level, they blasphemy\nWith the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\nThem stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\nThey had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\nHow I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\nIf you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\nBad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\nTo the bottom as quick as they blow\nFrown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\nThem bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\nIn the middle of strife, I appear calm\nSame shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\nDon't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\nGet flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\nA clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\nSame words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\nI'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\nStand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\nYour bars are misguided\n\nEstablished niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\nIt's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\nWhen I spit, I give you that corner feel\nYou nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\nFor niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\nIt's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\nExplore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\nSome brave grave diggers, yay flippers\nCampaignin' on a ballot like Ye\nNigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\nYeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\nWhat they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\nMy vision splattered with blood\nMy wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\nRemember, those who judge should never matter to you\nAnd those who matter would never judge\n\nI knew closed caskets before open doors\n\nFrom where crackheads crack heads and open sores\nWhere they killed for power until ghosts would form\nHomies I'm supposed to mourn\nBut pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\nWhere they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\nGrew up cold, but I never froze\nToo much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\nDeath was king and guns was crowned\nMurder was retirement\n\nAnd I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\nBut my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\nLivin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\nDidn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\nThat's nine millimeter\nI was nine meters away from Millers\nGrandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n'Cause now I get cheers and raise\nThe bar, I don't know what to call it\nCouldn't care if I'm relatable\nJake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\nNever too comfortable though\nYou can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\nAlpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\nI don't brag, I breathe\nI'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\nI inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\nSent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\nThe street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\nHeavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\nThis ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Beautiful Gravesites (feat. J. Arrr & Black Chakra)\n  artist: Ransom\n  album: No Rest for the Wicked\n  duration_ms: 284000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  I ain't gon' play with you\n  Yeah\n\n  Made this dope, but it won't China white, I'm kinda nice\n  It's kinda like Jackson, Jordan, Tyson when I find a mic\n  I bake my own pie, you still tryna find a slice\n  Sold your soul for an easy break, that's Elijah Price\n\n  Line of sight through these niggas who missed the glass reference\n  Whole life I trained to be clutch, won't fear my last seconds\n  Past lessons taught me how to get my bags hefty\n  And I never had to blow like the brass section\n  I just knew I would win as a hood kid\n  But growin' up in the projects was like them hood films\n  Just more gory, I know some stories that shook limbs\n\n  But this is why I'm hot, it's like I booked Mims\n  A good kid in this mad city that's mad gritty\n  Ask the locals, they'll probably tell you it's mad litty\n\n  My bars be God level, they blasphemy\n  With the punches, this kid blackin', Jack Dempsey\n  Them stats empty, y'all disappear when it matters most\n  They had a coach and still couldn't see me, it's like I had a cloak\n  How I make these niggas earl, they ain't Manigault\n\n  If you spoke up, you still couldn't have the flow\n  Bad approaches with good timin', they hook, line and sink\n  To the bottom as quick as they blow\n  Frown faces once they see the positions we hold\n\n  Them bitches bent out of shape, Emily Rose, woah\n\n  In the middle of strife, I appear calm\n  Same shirts that I stained with blood I be wipin' these tears on\n  Don't steer wrong, I'm a felon, no rights, but I bear arms\n  Get flared on, I bet you thought you was fightin' Amir Khan\n  A clear charm when I write with this vision, hard to recite it\n  Same words that bounce off you in public scar you in private\n  I'm hardly excited, you too plain, target the pilot\n  Stand-up niggas get hurt with they flag like Jonathan Isaac\n  Your bars are misguided\n\n  Established niggas sellin' mixtape slots to try to fix they spot\n  It's part of the virus, we partly divided\n\n  When I spit, I give you that corner feel\n  You nothin' like us, when I clutch, I make sure your Jordans peel\n  For niggas throwin' parties in prison who got that court appeal\n  It's more than real, he stroll on a tear, but how his daughter feel?\n  Explore the field, I ain't waitin' for fate, nigga\n  'Cause yesterday's run ain't gon' win you today's race, nigga\n  Some brave grave diggers, yay flippers\n  Campaignin' on a ballot like Ye\n  Nigga, tryna get this to eight figures\n\n  Yeah, I'm just tryna be great, nigga\n  What they give us? My grass cut, I'm watchin' these snakes slither\n\n  My vision splattered with blood\n  My wife and children give me strength, guess I'm just a savage in love\n\n  Remember, those who judge should never matter to you\n  And those who matter would never judge\n\n  I knew closed caskets before open doors\n\n  From where crackheads crack heads and open sores\n  Where they killed for power until ghosts would form\n  Homies I'm supposed to mourn\n  But pardon this postpartum of this martyrdom\n  Where they're birthed into a revolution that they never chose\n  Grew up cold, but I never froze\n  Too much heat around me, no photosynthesis\n  'Cause when suns went down, sons went down\n  Death was king and guns was crowned\n  Murder was retirement\n\n  And I screamed so much that sirens were my torment\n  But my end wasn't on no Mayan calendar\n  Livin' was a fight and I'm a challenger\n\n  Didn't shoot a pistol, but everybody knew my caliber\n\n  That's nine millimeter\n  I was nine meters away from Millers\n  Grandpa was an alcoholic, it's hereditary\n  'Cause now I get cheers and raise\n  The bar, I don't know what to call it\n  Couldn't care if I'm relatable\n  Jake LaMotta without a dollar, I was made for bull\n  Never too comfortable though\n  You can get made a fool on blocks where danger rules\n  Alpo got murdered, the streets got paid in full\n\n  I don't brag, I breathe\n  I'm the man who made himself more than a Moor\n\n  I inhale greatness and exhale murdered friends\n\n  Sent from above, the crime scene without a director's cut\n  The street cinema where a history of violence turned to pain and glory\n  Heavy is the head that was born to grasp the most\n  This ain't even a poem, these are ransom notes\n"}]