And it just don't work, please do me a favour.
I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.
Cos I got that block; please do me a favour,
I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.

Give me space, give me time, give me more room;
me & John, we make bangers, bringing you more soon.
Told him, "quick, let's get the booth lit,
if we spit, quadruple the hits we'll make a fortune."
My words, I'm wishing that they were all true,
but the block had a vice-grip on my core dude.
Hid behind my smile for a while; that's what they saw through,
I ain't sad; I just need someone that I can talk to.
I'm guessing we've all established that everybody knows what 'real rap' is,
I'm looking at Lil like, "how'd he get that rich?"
While I'm coming with the fire like I'm still Katniss.
Too many so-called rappers with nappy braids,
put a few words together cos rapping pays.
How can you cosign and tell me it's 'new wave',
are you drunk on the Ducay or the koolaid?
I'm decent, I thought by now that they'd know,
they don't, now I've got more woes than Dave-O.
Now matter how I move I'm stuck in the same place,
it's like I'm on a treadmill running the same pace.
From day I know my teams had my back;
excelling in the work-rate that I've lack.
And what I've wrote down really looks quite crap,
I'm fuming cos I'm getting so side tracked.

And it just don't work, please do me a favour.
I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.
Cos I got that block; please do me a favour,
I ain't got time to perfect my rhymes, let me do this later.

My passions like my habit; I just cannot quit,
adamant it's bad for is but I just wanna have a hit.
Whenever I face no features like a mannequin,
I'm battling with me, myself & I like Jim Carrey did.
Sometimes it's - not what's wrote but the intention behind it,
how much you will admit or if you're attempting to hide shit.
Deciding to define your life with the pen that you write with
is a sign that your life isn't as nice as you'd like, it's lifeless.
So we communicate in Freudian slips,
all of my brother's by my side like we were joint at the hip.
The stairwells & underpasses all anointed in piss,
nothing to do for these youths, grooming boisterous kids.
All this on my mind & just wanna write,
another night of nothing nice come from my mind.
It's proper shite when I can't write.
My only means of expression is honouring a mic,
so when the writers-block hits my punchlines'll sock a right.