different strokes for different folks but not everyone hit it right
always hung with different types
different nights you could find me with the rich kids or with all the hustlers the system sniped
new york; eryone got stories but use different mics
erybody got the same emotions
erybody drinkin
smokin
bumpin biggie from bed-stuy to park slope
and i mean do-or-die stuy
not the one where you move to open your $8 coffee shop cause your pops gave you a loan
shit
but i digress
what i'm sayin's what's inside my chest
it's defined by all the girls and guys i've met who look down on each other not knowin their eyelines met
posh rich model bitches on the concrete runway wanna be instagram thugs and talk that gunplay
everybody frontin for pictures chasin the gimmick
tryna quell the loneliness of truth in figments of fiction
it's fear
i was taught to know the value of a dollar
but not to find my value in a dollar
that's why i don't gotta chart
i can eat cause they know i got a heart
out here tryna make change cause see dollars tear apart
and i ain't sayin that when jay was in marcy scribblin down his first bars he wasn't even thinkin of cars he could cop like money wasn't always the plot but honor/respect was a form of credit
and check it
dudes'll blow their whole score today for a check
if it's blue and next to your name online that's even better
but i don't need it only the people can verify me
fuck your follow count
i need park benches to sign me
fuck an influencer
the whole city behind me
it's craft
Lyric Context: the tunnel's end (brooklyn) - craft, marlon