Lupe Fiasco – Say Something lyrics

[Intro: Lupe Fiasco]
Ugh
We just gonna keep it going and going
Until I feel completed and happy about it, you know?
Ugh

[Verse: Lupe Fiasco]
Opus of a ghetto boy who grew into a project man
Brewster Place, he used to stick his scissors in his sockets—damn
Clear that project runway, 'cause this is where my rocket lands
Ain’t got no problems, Houston—I A.K.A. then rocket-land
Events recent that lit a fire under him like pots and pans
Rockets and I up in the sky, like helicopter cams
And you down there in the traffic jam
From here, I’ve seen a bunch of fake shit like avid wrassling fans
Came up from the bottom of the eye exam—zoom!
Now, I’m like the biggest G up in the room
Still hard to see me like the truth on TV
Or the roof from the sidewalk; I don’t flow, I ceiling
My mama said they need me
'Cause I’m made from the best stuff on earth, like Snapple Tea Leaves
They glass is half full, so I spit into them like Celie
No longer G—now, you can see me
But your letter's still under my sea, like seaweed
C and G but nothing 'bout me C-G
It’s all real—none of this is green screen
"Shut Up and Let Me Go" just like The Ting Tings
I’m feeling like a Mac standing around a bunch of PCs
I’ve rocked it from the shottas to the soccer moms
Try to stop what’s going on
You’ll see the back of my hand like the tops of palms
I’m balling like the tops of Palms
Circle of influence getting bigger like the ripples on the tops of ponds
Sure-footed and war-headed like the tops of bombs
Dominoing niggas; delivery is Papa John's
Little Caesar's of burning down your Pizza Huts
Plaque collection building 'cause I don’t brush my teeth enough, yeah
Yeah, crack is wack and reefer sucks
You might think this deep as fuck, but this is like my weaker stuff
They ask, "Is this his day-to-day? 'cause this is like a week to us"
Mic is shy and speakers blush
I is shy and he is up; I correct—me is up
No we is up, 'cause it's like two of me
And each of us rapping acid—eat this up
A-Town down, peace is up
New York to East Coast is cuffed; westside riding
Lot of niggas' salty 'cause, 'cause I be overseas and tough
Everything seamless, WorldStar never seen this
NahRight gotta stream this, motherfucking genius
Brave and fly; you backbone-less and wingless
Bunch of chickens on the strip—I’m coming for they fingers
'Til what they throwing up is meaningless
Chilly Chill, you seeing this? This didn’t make MTV’s list
Finish fingers, eating wrist, feeding frenzy and shit
Succotash-suffering, chicken fricasseeing this
A beat-eating media blitz, pace is getting feverish
Pain is growing Seaver-ish, these the peppers Peter picked
Things are at their easiest, real Compton-city-G’ing it
But I’m from Chicago—house lights, bravos
[Outro]
(*Applause*)
Yeah
I'm just playing
Internet, check
Check, check, check, check