You know, it's like...I don't wanna be one thing to everybody...but everybody's so much happier with me being one thing.

So, Def, (you're the only one I can turn to).

Uh...yeah...

What they ask of you
with your background experience and class assumed
is that you sit down, hands folded in backs of rooms
and million-kilo-marijuana-stash your views

cuz you don't matter.
And everybody with a similar hue like yours is gon' shatter
the blues they've been given and move on after,
right? I mean, isn't that what happened

when we crowned this king? Didn't we beat down walls?
Ain't this Berlin? All together, sweet now, y'all.
Cheese! Smile for the boosters.
Suits and ties on the stroll. Shine all your shoes up.

Play translator for the people of color they'd rather not talk to.
That's the rabbit hole ya fall through.
They need someone to explain shit to 'em, and they call you.
Yeah. They call you John Smith.

Write some bomb shit. Be they favorite.
"I love white rappers. I mean, they're just SO MUCH MORE intelligent!" Ha!
Haha...lemme go tell Lil' Wyte and Haystak
or let's throw on some Justice and let you get your rave back!

This all I'm good for, right?
As long as three sixteens and the hook's all nice
you can book the white boy, hook him up to y'all mics
and pay for his punchlines to make y'all night.

Thing is, I'll never say no.
That's the game, and I'ma play on.
Doesn't mean I have to be a pawn
cuz I won't take an L like how knights move on the board-

-walk. I'm Steve Buscemi.
Let's put him on puppet strings while we drinkin' on this Henny.
Watch him dance around landmines for your entertainment
or attempt to explain shit. No further statements.

Chyeah. What they ask of you
is talkin' in four-minute spurts. When your raps are through,
it's right back to "Adam who?"
And then your social anxiety disorder done sapped ya, too.

Throw back a brew. Act like you never do.
Pretend the page is a friend in the pen you write letters to.
Tell Def it's hard on the outside of a spiral
and you're angry, you're emo, your homies just fly through

to harass and mock ya. Another acid shocker
'til the glass is dropped. No chaser or rocks
just vodka. It sits in your chest. Fuck burnin'.
Start prayin' that your luck's turnin'.

Tell people that you don't like writing depressing shit,
and then argue with your producers about messages.
Huh. What took my reason?
Feeling like Hunter S. Thompson at the end of football season.

This won't end like he did
from a cannon to the sky and coverin' the whole region.
Runnin' the wrong sequence.
Your future was all sequined, and now the shit's Wheat Thins.

Doubt creeps in, and every verse could be your last one.
Defcee's perfect. Let's start workin' on Adam.
He's weird and he's awkward.
Let's give him a little bit of that stage presence and confidence to walk with.

Destroy and rebuild. Stay out the city.
Nobody likes him there. They toleratin'.
They listenin' to this song now, and prolly hatin'.
It's time to move on...

...nah...

...fuck all that.
It's too easy: one large trap.
Sometimes, I write like I'm thoughtless.
Thanks for the talk, Def. (You're the only one I can turn to)