You know guys, it’s really Nick’s decision, dude, what happens with this mixtape.
This is totally “100 Miles and Running,” dude.
I couldn’t get any drops from any famous people so I’m just gonna say it myself, dude.
I appreciate you downloading the mixtape, however.
You got it, whatever, you know, Catchdubs/Wale thing.
So, what I need you to do right now is roll your windows up keep blowin’ on something – the AC blowin’ on you.
Tell your girl don’t talk to you for about 2 minutes and 30 seconds, 3 minutes, or however long we about to do it.
Yeah, you, don’t say nothing, okay? Just bob your head like you get it

Peace to Maryland, but still an uptown roamer
Aroma, strong enough to bring ‘em outta coma
The wake up, dawg get ya face off the pillow
Necessarily rough ‘em, I’m a fightin’ armadillo
No fumbalaya, no fumblerooski
One choke of this you a note from Mariah high
Wale they call me Tiger Stripes
I’ll forever move any cat they admire mine
With that MJ flow they hurl mine to my
So the mind they mine don't coincide with mine
Go inside the mind, you will find the mine
You see my mind’s a bomb sittin’ behind my eyes
Detonating when I rhyme a rhyme
So in layman’s terms my words burn
There you lyin’ a rhyme
Also, this mothafucka got a nine to five
Hardest spittin’ mothafucka this side of the line
Harder niggas try to hate me, they be lovin’ this side
They were niggas quite similar to pitching the lines
But the same deposition take an L every time
And I’m no ‘Los Rogers, no Mike Williams
Holla at ya boy young Roy’s in the kill shit
Home of the terrapins, beware of the Gilchrist
Weed’s played out, they on that pill shit
A bad mothafucka, where that MILFs at?
I work overtime, Millsap
Y’all Millhouse, blew y’all head
Pause, you not near Wa-le
Who not fear? Dawg, yeah, dawg, you, them E-T-C
I.E. I get sick, white tee, I be kicks
Ya’ll be highly obliged when I drop my shit

[Hook - Daniel Merriweather:]
Me and you I think we should ride
Come on come on come on come on
Don't worry just done get inside
Come on come on come on come on

I can’t promise this verse will be better than the first
But still how you niggas I get jacks on the first
In search of my perfection, no gotta love it further
In search of my direction, my genre is certain
It’s hip-hop, not pop
Been waiting for the real, real long like skirts at a sock-hop
I like bitches in Air Maxes without socks
And when they wear makeup I’m like “No sir”
I can’t fuck with the alter
Sorta like a dyke that I altar
I gotta bounce, I don’t call her
I just bounce like there’s no hole
Barry Sanders on turf
That means I have no block
True, indeed, I don’t rep no block
I rep for the people that rep hip-hop
And it don’t stop
I went to school with the white boys
So I can understand the plight for ‘em
But I don’t mean to finna fight for ‘em
I ran the street with the street niggas
So I can understand police victims
But I don’t mean to finna speak for ‘em
I mean to speak for ‘em
With the s’more from the narrative
Check it
And you can tell everyone
I ain’t finna lie and I ain’t finna fake
It’s Wale Folarin, I tell you how it is
State your fuckin’ biz
If ya’ll about to hate then alleviate the diss
And talk some more shit
Ready? Huh