Booga in the booth, no cap, I’m haunted
Chrome on my hip like I’m West London’s wanted
Trap line jump, that’s a rave in a carton
Ex-girl salty, she cry in her Harvest
I flip a ten to a fifty, gymnastic
Dark in the ends, where the opps go missing
Booga just barked, now the pavement’s listening
No sleep, just sharks and a lost ambition
Cold world, got my soul in remission
Still glide through the fog with precision