Verse 1: While everybody partied like Puff, I was running like Russ. I was looking for Lyor when Warner wasn’t enough. Skated through Dior, voyeurism was tough. Then bought it all home like Curtis Snow on tha bluff. Sup? Soundscan never defined us. On the corners is where you find us. 183rd n*gga rhyming, tryna grind up. Hold up, shall I remind us? Before Facebook, before YouTube I was killing this shit, homie what’d you do? Hit a couple of stages, been to a couple states. I ran through all of the majors, fucked with the heavy weights. You were Myspacing, living on your computer. You Internet star, cool I been a shooter. Killed the release dates, my records go hard. The Difference is ya’ll don’t go HAM, ya’ll go blog. I did a movie, Jay-Z video too. Hot 97 before I started in High School. We all can’t be American Idols but shit, where were you n*ggas before the virals? A bunch of I dealer turned rapper rappers from last week with no Rap sheets, no wonder them Rap’s weak. No ambition having, rapping like a deals the shit. I made five figures last year just to sit, shit. Self made, you just affiliated, you a reality show, ya’ll fucking entertaining. So fuck what you, her, him, and even them say. I’m not a star, look what fame did to MJ

Chorus: I’m not a star. Somebody lying, ain’t no yoppas in them cars but them jeans is Dior. Mr. President, there’s drugs in our residence. Tell me what you want me to do, come break bread with us

I’m not a star. Somebody lying, ain’t no yoppas in them cars but them jeans is Dior. Mr. Governor, I swear there’s a cover- up, every other corner there’s a liquor store, fuck is up?

Verse 2: Nina Simone died, nobody cried. They’re whitewashing the textbooks, praying we blind. Blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. The blacker these n*ggas, the more that they coon. Out the cocoon, fucking yapping to capture a coupe. Acting a fool like they don’t see how they’re planning a coup. Like they don’t see these little n*ggas that’s nothing but cruel in Chi-Town where they ain’t acting they actually shoot. Fuck would you rather me do? Play this on the radio. N*gga with attitude since a year after ’84. The one painting the story redraws the picture, strip the crown from these Kings, leave nothing but a… n*gga. Human beings in a mob, what’s a mob to a king when money don’t mean a thing, n*gga? Fuck what you, her, him, and even them say. I’m not a star, look what fame did to MJ

Chorus: I’m not a star. Somebody lying, ain’t no yoppas in them cars but them jeans is Dior. Mr. President, there’s drugs in our residence. Tell me what you want me to do, come break bread with us

I’m not a star. Somebody lying, ain’t no yoppas in them cars but them jeans is Dior. Mr. Governor, I swear there’s a cover- up, every other corner there’s a liquor store, fuck is up?

Verse 3: The music biz must hate me cuz the Industry ain’t make me. Rap in the Bronx raised me and some shit I learned at Skate Key. Refused to dumb down, even if for the dollars. In the ‘Bach or the SLS a ho will still wanna holler. If skills sold truth be told, I’d probably be artistically the new and improved Spike Lee. Dig it, I make records like A Tribe called Quest and I’m outspoken, they’re acting like I’m Kanye West. Well, me and ‘Ye got some shit that’s in common more than a fashion sense. Fuck deception, no exceptions we do what makes sense. And I know what I’m up against, record corporations ran by cultural ignance. And I can’t help the poor if I’m one of them so I rap and got two degrees, the win, win. Next time you see the homie and them Jordan’s he in just know my jeans is Dior’s like them. Lyor’s that is

MJ, fade away, perfect