"Refitted Fragments" produced by Madlib ("Another Batch (Play It Again)" from Beat Konducta, Vol. 6: Dil Withers Suite)

Mic trippin beneath the surface of the earth, I'm skipping rocks, sitting style-Indian. Meridian ante. Microwave entree, unlimited heat raps, unfinished beat stack by my main man Bombay. My homeboy had his little girl, Leilani, bless. I'm listening to Kannie West, like 'this is fresh?' I dipped in depths that most niggas don't float, but still get dissed 'cuz I don't own a big enough boat. I'm biggin' up hope, and PEACE to the rope you're at the end of, picking up the pieces of the shattered glass mirror. Sending my love to Brenda (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wl54ABY8VgY), she struggled at first, but gave birth to our nieces and the future's realest niggas...I mean KINGS. My old habits die harder. I'm mixed up, word to Lenny Kravitz white father. And the white rabbit's talking like it's time for me to make my exit supreme, in my dreams I see the coffin coming. So please excuse me if I go too fast, and you can sue me, but you'll have a fine time trying to find a dime to grab. Living inside these desperate times, the nerve of some rappers trying to act like they rhyme. Line after line of the same-ol'-same. Puff Combs telling y'all to Press Play...you oughta stop. I'm saying, all of y'all autobot niggas. You following the times, trying to swallow clocks quicker. But when the hollow-tip glock bullet looks you in the muzzle, you realize the Joneses can't help you out of trouble. Myself? I got problems of my own that need bursting, in the streets searching, trying to hide the struggles of a person that needs assistance, public and private. Mumbling words to myself, eyelids shut wide. My tribe can touch time, restructure universes. Mind benders. The only caveat is that I gotta find them niggas, so I'm looking into every constellation in the firmament, and every beat I murdered is a step to keep me further from a breakdown.