MVP

Yeah

Ten in the morning, I light that blunt just out of habit
Lost Boyz playing, practicing my rhymes
In the yard, the cold froze my radio
I hit the court and the crowd cheers for no reason

I’ve written out the whole glossary with my rhymes
Gonna see that bitch, she breaks the rich and pays me in Prime
I ain't got a dime, I give her love and she teases me in topless
I feel like the one among all those motherfuckers

Heading to the studio, tweaking my album
They wanna know where my lyrics come from
Castelli 466 and 5, always ready
How can I not be your favorite in the game?

Consuming players, sampling shit from Roy Ayers, kid
I’m not in the trap, I miss the details, listen
Walking through the hood, listening to iconic records
They analyze my lyrics only in agonizing moments

They tend to go mute
The data your product sells me just makes me wanna puke
Those who listen to me are junkies and alcoholics
My groupies? They keep their identity anonymous

Don’t look for synonyms
They say they love me and in bed they call me by my alias
Writing bars, I love my city like Su
They ask me: Zero, why is only your shit on YouTube?

I'm making rules, shorty, I’m gonna throw the money in your ass
While some classic Cube plays in the background
I’m that player who got you nodding in a loop
Chillin' in the club, hanging out in the hood, son

I’ve had my time in the plazas and the park
But rap is outside the circus you set up, homie
I took the mic and honed my skills elsewhere
They buy my Spanglish, I’m smooth and classy like El Cangri

I'm the best player, signed with Bayern, just listen to me
They’ll find me dead in some neighborhood in Bucharest
I’ll expire from hate
I look at my horse's teeth even if you wrap it in a bow

I pick up the remnants of autumn like withered leaves on the step
I practice my raps in the bathroom
I fix the damage by writing you verses
I call her my hoe when she moves it
Even if she denies it, she blushes

For two years I’ve been addicted to her cinnamon skin
Like that dude on the corner, just craving the stuff
I lay the cards on the table that’s falling apart
For those brothers who listen to me, I’m Nel Mandela

I roll the white, aim for the target
There’s a backup every time I look at the bench, bro
I’m gonna see what’s up with the girl who stares at me so much
But the bitches are problems like Elvira Hancock

Coming down from San Martin smelling like weed
Wanting to steal that Siroco
Sometimes I lose a lot, sometimes I gain a little
Listen to my lines, I don’t mess up in any of them

You see what I provoke?
I turn what I touch into rhymes
Shout out to those crazy girls and those crazy guys
Even if we’re few

(Motherfucker)