Tobey in the rearview, chain swing like a pendulum,
I’m the glitch in your algorithm, venom in the adrenaline.
Came from the sewer, still smell like the medicine,
turn a gram to a Grammy, elegy to a jubilee.
Half of these rappers is dead to me, literally—
I autopsy the beat, carve “Tobey” in the epitaph.
Big Sean push the Cullinan, wings on the hood, amen—
we the ghost in your machine, boo-hoo, restart again.