Evidence – Sell Me This Pen lyrics

("Sell me this pen")

Run through the wringer with my bros
Can’t even count the years in this game on my fingers and my toes
I don’t get open dancing on stage, I bring it to a close
Make a sandwich out of my knuckles and bring it to your nose
Mink black, the link Turkish
I wasn’t randomly selected, I was chose to serve a purpose
On many levels, you still scratching the surface
Machine’s working, I’m wrapping packages for purchase
Speed in a German auto, not with the frivolous convo
I’m in a drop rocking a hooded poncho
Talking out your ass, something I put my foot in pronto
Not the GOAT, but the way I float, it got my name put in the convo
Codename: Spy Hunter, I’m fly for the summer
Pockets thick like 22 plied lumber
Make a spectacle, observe me while I’m doing my numbers
Fadeaways with the tongue out when I’m shooting my jumpers

Fuck, bigger picture, if I rhyme, it’s just coincidence
These are God’s words given to my brain on top of instruments
Filtered through a brush, so when I paint it’s never settling
It’s reggae roots, rock, or watch Roots rock “Adrenaline”
Fuck the rhetoric of any lies attached to me
Assassinate my character with rumors and the blasphemy
Truth’s crushed to the earth and then it rises
While the working late doctor working late with no surprises
I sell ‘em stories, I don’t tell ‘em the end
Only person in this building who could sell ‘em this pen
(Sell me this pen) Say it slow one time and never say it again
‘Cause your day might, and you never know when
This my shot, no chase
Either get briefed to the Evidence or there ain’t no case
Still rock it off my hand so there ain’t no trace
I’ve been around the planet but there ain’t no place

Make sure the shit is for real, the woodgrain is Stradivari, Venice Chenille
We'll push caine to cash and carry, niggas was ill
Make sure the visit was healed
I put pain in every pad, we been in appeal
My bookbag was axillary, niggas could tell
Wrist is concealed, riches on top of riches, membership dues
We owe a lot of niggas venison til
Kind of fit link is from Nigerian grills
I keep a plantain in back of the coupe
Bullets ta-ting like the grand wizard, spit a thing at your canoot
Chewing tobacco, raw lavish is loose
Bullets for Babylon, babbling rules
365 donts, 249 patented moves
Food la bouche, it’s maize in your mouth with horse radish and goose
The poor house is salt, crackers, and soup
I’m Munchausen on rappers for juice—where is your proof?
Like you could fuck with all of that in the booth
I put professors on sabbatical too
I put some ketchup on a rapper, little peppercorn ranch and it’s "Mmm"
My bishop ran up on your castle in slough, Ravishing Rude
Some eucharist was on his hat in a cube
The hat flew, his ex let out the crack for fast food

("I’m wondering whether or not to go to France next week")