(VERSE 2 - Pusha T) Look, real bars are the ill bars. These scars are the only real proof they couldn't kill gods. My coke hand is still sketchin' out my memoirs. What I did to door panels on them Windstars. Gem stars, left cuts in the dinner plates. It's new stash spots, the AC don't just ventilate. Take over your blocks, young niggas assimilate. We all break bread like going Dutch on a dinner date. The love of your life rap nigga wear fake watches. The serial number don't match the gift boxes. The bezel on her ballon bleu do the Tinashe. The bitch told me two-tone Rollies was too blasé (Yugh). Way more chemical than political. PTSD from what I weighed on the digital. It was snowfall and Reagan gave me the visual. Obama opened his doors knowing I was a criminal. I took a risk, I took a brick. Took a road trip to a Motel 6. Get it wholesale and you know I won't tell shit. Ride coattails, then he really want that lit. Just another in the mix, nigga, I'm rich, nigga. Tell me, is you Alpo or Mitch, nigga? Bet it all, roulette, all on my wrist, nigga. Like Cleo setting it off, taking your bitch, nigga, ooh...