J.J.E.

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Saile

Sáile (anglicized as Salia or Saula) is a small Gaeltacht village on an easterly peninsula of Achill Island in County Mayo, Ireland. The village has a national school (founded in 1910). Villages neighboring Sáile include Gob an Choire and An Caiseal. more »

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The 25, 8 square root villain
Barefoot chillin' in a drop top ride
No socks, no ceilings
Sky be my limit, with a footnote in it
Reading "if we make it past, I can rest one minute"
I'm my own worst critic, even I can understand
That not a single little shit can mimic, you should admit it (Yah!)
Got no gimmicks off the index, you an echo
Estoy fresco, know my style retro, got that
Jean jacket elegance
Umbrella could be denim as well, I gel well with the elements
Young rebels in the game like veterans
I show up like it's always been my home, puff, gone with no evidence
Stay high, lie low like the Netherlands
Never land if it ain't Neverland, hold it there, hello?
Eyo, what's up? If your schedule ain't too tight
Party goin' down, my place, tonight, we got it all
Juice, jay, et cetera
Memories of last weekend, lotta wild shit on my retina
Tempted for a moment then I'm tapped on the shoulder
By that melody never created last hangover (Sober)
Call you back, homie, I'll be at the next
Hang up, check my missed calls list by reflex
I think she mad at my lack of responding to her
Guess sometimes it's lyric before text, Q

The studio over sex, a clean mix over drinks
A final touch over resting
Distracted by the zeitgist, times are testing
But I draw outside the lines 'til I see a clear sign of progressing
Put it all on the line, I'll sacrifice it for a shot
At everything that I want, everything that I got
Exception exactly one
Never myself
You'll never see a price on my soul, it's not on the shelf
I'll say it just as loud as I need, never forget
A selling of the seller is a deal to regret
Some are willing to limit their own heads just to fit the crowns
And some go in a higher gear than the box allows

Bitch, I'm the judge, jury and executioner
Writer, rapper, producer
This one goes out to the equipment abusers
I spit into a battered 57, filter on sale
Sail' on the mic
Tyson motherfuckers to the guard rail, that's a
Hard tale for a soft ass kid
I contain more than I could ever fit on the lid
Let the grind toughen your skin, but never seep in
So that the mind loses its color, keep using your spin
To propel
See, you could win a race an empty shell
Chop the doors off, jettison the seat with the smell
It's all well when the crowd's out praising the victor
And that includes you too, 'cause now you're out of the picture
You thought it was you, the baller on the charts, in the news 
You used to be him, used to walk inside his hype-ass shoes
Always center of attention, he's the king of the hill
You played him but they never noticed when the actor was killed
The author cashin' the bill, he's the executive producer
The label owner, the A&R in charge of your future
All of the fuckers making cheese off your shit
Convinced you that there was no reason to quit
Until you're nothing but a Theseus ship
They ripped the ugly parts out, turned the rest to a character
Edges all smoothed over and pushed inside of a canister
You were in on it, but now you've grown
And what you thought you had control of got a mind of its own
Whether you wanna wield weapons or you're kind to the bone
Be next to Kendrick and Staples, or flexin' on 'em like Malone
It's your own choice, nobody can point you to your zone 
But make sure that it's your own ass mounting the throne, watch it
The profit slippin' through your fingers if you never lock it
Chain it to your brain, not in anybody's pocket
Running outta time but that boy on to something, next shit
Juvenile jumpman, exit

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