[Certain]

I'm pinning you weak frauds against the back of the cage,
shackled and slain by the baddest bastard filling caskets with rage.
The Mac's scoped out, in case you maggots try to challenge my aim.
Put 6 on your back with the Heat —you saw what happened to James.
But I'm coming home soon — New York's natural-born king
from the borough of Queens, I'll bury your dreams when I catch y'all sleeping.
Shut your mouth when the pastor's preaching.
Weaker men would stab backs, but I'ma laugh as you gasp from breathing.
You're on the corner, dreaming, joking about who might get famous.
I already got mine. I'm going for two like the Raiders.