Artist: U-God f/ Styles P Album: The Keynote Speaker Song: Fame Typed by: Cno Evil [Intro: U-God (sample)] You know it's all about (fame, fame) You know it's all about (fame) [U-God] I'm a winner in my book Lean cuisine, in the kitchen, the fly cook In the air, like Kareem and the sky hook Def Jux, my left hook, this is easy work It's the mic mechanics, see the greasy shirt This is easy perks, photo shoots, stepped out of the chopper My bitch know she cute, Manolo boots, keep cussing at the hustlers How you gonna get loot? You cussing out the customers No sales, you better have my cash If the feds don't grab me, I got lots of plans I need gold, the all-star cast In the leading role, call it cruise control Everything is shakable, everything is cake-able No chinks in my armor, I'm feeling unbreakable Swimming through the shark's tank, I'm top rank [Chorus: U-God (sample)] For the (fame) for the (fame) for the (fame) For the (fame) for the (fame) for the (fame) [U-God] On my arm I draw ink, resemble war tank The glass tipper, spilling up more drink All I do is think of ways to smash him Eyes on me, rise for the anthem Rings like Green Lantern, in the green phantom Talk of the town, don't he look handsome? You little league, you only major debt It's the takeover, I'm cashing European checks Brush your teeth, I'm your early morning toothache Stomp the roach, this is how my boo taste Cotton candy, hot sipping Brandy Pass me my suitcase, you skinny pants fruitcake Listen to the grime, when it's mixed with crime I'm dusting off my rhyme book, you stalking on my timeline From the foul line, back to the huddle Writing tracks on the bullet train, to the shuttle [Chorus] [Styles P] Raised by Wolves like the book by Cavario Did a lotta dirt but never will say sorry though Wild like the Latin boys down in El Bario Quick on the juks, then you better do your cardio Run to 'em, or run from 'em He's a killa, so you can't take his gun from him He bag coke, so his hands feel numb from 'em He's a coldhearted bastard, better dumb dumb 'em Preferably a forty-five, my job is making sure If they violate the big man and little shorty ride Out in the stretcher in the ambulance, me? I let the hammer blam For niggas moving grams on the hand to hand If I'm talking snow, it's an avalanche I ain't thinking of rap, but catch me in a battle stance Yeah, it's the Ghost, muthafucka Guns, rappers and blunts, yeah, I smoke muthafucka [U-God] Check out my drunk dance, the Killah Hill red bone Put that on my headstone, you see the gem stone? Call it in the end zone, headphones, Dr. Dre The new sensation, yeah, I got a lot to say Let him speak, he's so misunderstood Let him speak, the new voice of the hood Never had the type, always had the heart Keep it simple and sharp, til I land on the charts [Chorus]