Woi! Jagga Bootz Media in the cuts. This is the truth, no cap. Landed at two, straight from the East, yeah, I stepped on the ends' block. Nursery door? That's where the graft started, always sorted the business. Raised in the heart of Wakefield, you know the NF area was proper hot then. Every single day, I had to chef up and step on the Tarmac strip. From the young yutes tryna violate, to the big breddas who needed the static. I took the pressure, I was seasoned early, this life is peak. My whole life's been pure madness, a constant frass on the strip. I had to learn quick, no time for the long mush, keep the blade on the hip. Man talk bare waffle now, but they didn't see the grind, the struggle. I was built different from the jump, skidding through the urban jungle. Touched down in The Hill, seen it was like the HQ, you get the memo. The local opps thought they could try it, but I shelled it, I ran that. They tried to prey on the rookie, moving proper loose and iffy. Bunned the whole ting quick, now they circle mad wide, respecting the movement. I keep myself to myself, stack the bands, stay off the radar. But when the man start slippin', they learn why nobody wants to know. These wastemen are ten toes, can't handle the gravitas I bring. I regulate the area's madness, I'm the one pulling the string. I'm the old school don that the yutes still fear. Fifty years on this earth, and I'm still the strongest near. Mandem vouch for it, no need for the hype, no cap, no lies. If you wanna bring the heat, just bring it, man, watch your world get fried. I don't leave things to chance, I keep the stick tucked, the drilling's prepared. If you move out of order with me, you're getting clapped, I swear. Yutes tryna violate and get slapped bare face. I don't lowe it when a man is fully gassed. They lurk the block with fidgety spirits trying to create a mazza, but I've got the whole ting patterned with the O.Gs. The youngers are loose, always giving verbal, but they ain't seen the true ride out. We move lowkey in the four-door, doing the spin, no time for the chatty mouth. I stack my racks and handle the tings from the bando where the phone is chirping non-stop. The opps try to lurk, but their efforts are jokey. They come for a splash, get met with a ching, and then they're ten toes back to their side, crying to their mumsy. The Wakefield link-up is solid, the whole ting is cemented in loyalty. Nah, never that. We keep the waps close, always ready for the moment. The code is rigid, the discipline is mad. Every transaction is clean, every piece of graft pays dividends. My reputation does the talking, I'm the ghost in the system, the architect of the mayhem. They step wrong, they get fried. That's the final statement, no cap.
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