Guess who’s back in the cipher, black Nike straps tighten—
I write lightning, strike mics like graphite on papyrus.
Sky’s the palette, I paint planets with verb-chambers,
turn stages to graveyards, bury wannabe slang-slingers.
Every bar’s a tar-brick, hard-core art in the archives,
I carve time, rewind minds, leave the future behind.
Still the seven-letter emperor, never error, ever better,
forever—Rakim—back to snap necks of whatever.