Jay Electronica
"The Ghost of Christopher Wallace"

The game ain't been the same since B.I.G died
And Wu swarmed on New York from out that beehive
Don't talk to me bout MC's got skill
Don't talk to me bout whose the king of the hill
Don't talk to me bout whose the best alive
Or whose in your top five, cause he's not ill
Real recognize real, stick to your deal
Try to make a cool mill' off the sin-gle
With that ringtone to appeal, in three years, you'll be nil
Meal by mouth, my appeal down south
Is like the Nation of Islam's when Ali knocked Liston out
A universal change from what appeared as just a bout
All aboard, it's the last train, soul train
A bottle of Ciroc could turn a private jet to Soul Plane
Put your seats back, your tray down and feet up
Cause we about to heat up

From Baton Rouge to Jerusalem, rap crews we bruisin' 'em
Crooked mouth, flat-footed, cops man, we losing them
Let me see some ID, nigga fuck a ID
You been getting head from crackheads in the lobby
Mr. Officer, please observe my skin tone
Please observe the prophecies of hurricane and brimstone
The flow's so Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoy
Half oyster, half shrimp, fully dressed po-boy
Lyrically I'm unfuckwitable, unforgettable, one tough miracle
Competition's none, I leave 'em dumb stuck critical
That some luck, pitiful, better luck next time
We young, black, and restless, hung, black and reckless
My name's on every guest list, I bang on every set list
Went to London town, tore it down and threw my necklace
Even twitter said that Jay Elec be on that next shit
I should be arrested