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    Yield, to the forces of darkness
    I bring you the torches of our shit
    Reinforced with hardness of Wolverine’s
    Arms with the harshness and overall sharpness
    Now how far do the arms get?
    My nigga, from the stars to the starfish
    From the baby to the bomb
    It’s a whole lot of light and a whole lot of armlift
    My arms long, but I’m lawless
    A strong arm, I can lift up all this
    You gon’ have to build a bigger farm for us
    To keep them wolves out of Old Macdonald barn, bitch
    Yeah, Team Jacob
    We’re long armed, put my arms on a lear
    Everytime I put my hands in the air
    Watch the throne as I dance in the chair
    Throw my crown in the crowd, hope it lands on the heir
    The weak niggas like to pass interfere
    Spend a lot of lint over jams in the year
    That act like the man up in here
    That don’t count when your only real fan is a mirror
    That’s subliminal to any nigga that he feel he is too
    But you don’t stand a chance, playa
    I am there, Chi-Town, fan of the Bears
    Love where they dance in the square
    Yeah, Yankees too, but only cause Granderson there
    And now wears khaki pants on La Brea
    We all friends, why your man lookin’ scared?
    Turning whiter than Anderson hair
    Came out the garage like he saw a phantom in there, huh

    Oh shit alert, Louis clothes
    Callin women bitches, Louboutin and Gucci shows
    Well, I guess there goes my Louis shows
    More o shit, if your role model’s a movie role
    And if you live your life like it’s a studio
    Talkin’ to us like we mics, a bunch of you ain’t do befo’
    Electric fences for a urinal
    Also keep a toaster in my jacuzzi, yo
    Shock-a-zulu, call me Wasalu Ii
    Oh shit, man these record labels prostitute you
    Strap them to sushi bars, and feed em lots of fugu
    Catch a bad piece
    You can stick that 360 between your asscheeks
    Artists let’s mobilize and unionize like the athletes
    Radio is making our craft weak
    Forced to repeat the same dumb shit that work
    Only as hot as your last beat
    And rappers, they relating to that last piece
    Album never leave they desk if you don’t got no B.D.S
    Sacrifice your publishin’, they said you really need a hook
    And they ain’t gon’ pay you, said that you received a look
    And what’s stupid real, is what producers feel
    Twenty placements or you stuck in that producer deal
    And R&B chicks so get it the wildest
    All they money goes to hairdressers and stylists
    Gotta keep up with that image
    Label lose they mind if they ever see a blemish
    Proactiv impeals, airbrushers and trainers
    Managers suggest you fuck a nigga to be famous, huh
    But it’s all entertainment
    Wonder when Cobain blew out his brains, did he blame it?
    And if those snakes in the industry helped him aim it
    Started pressing up records before the bullet left the chamber
    I fight evil, everyday I’m livin’
    Rest in peace to men, women and the children
    And middle fingers to the Pilgrims that killed ‘em
    Friend of the People, happy Thanksgiving

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    Todas as letras de Lupe Fiasco

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