One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.It's over here.It's over here.Check it, we ice cold. Rap Siberian North Pole.This ain't rock and roll, cause the rap is in control.I'm like a blacksmith forging the mic and the gold.The game gets old when the game gets older.Spend a lot of time perusing the T-Dot.Maybe your beat's hot, but syllables bleak dark.Many men turn to mics when searching for cheese hocks.Pick up these guitars, knock negative heat knots.Now I'm like a Wrangler, angular rhymes triangular.Banging the beats from here to holly and I'm manning up.You best respect Canada in it's musical famine.So here's some manner you can't examine.I'm staggering, drunk amongst style.Official like Cardinal.Big up to Red One, Misfit.They put me up in the mix.Zep Rock Dettos coming with a bag of tricks.Sick.It's over here.It's over here.And we blow the spot.Put your city on the map and it's called the T-Dot.Yeah.It's over here.It's over here.And we blow the spot.Put your city on the map and it's called the T-Dot.Oh, oh, oh, you don't know.Grew up in Whippy.That's east of Toronto.Used to take the jet of downtown and check the sounds of DJ Xand Mastermind in the underground.Now I'm grown up, but I feel stuck.Hip hop head forever, trying to keep it together.Sometimes I think I'm going insane.Pressure brain, pressure falling on my head like rain.But fame can bring pain.That's why I got game and a rude attitude that I call Emily Ame.So you can get the mosaic if you claim to know that what I'm living.I break it down like long division.A mathematician within a vision like Stevie.No wonder I make a mover from Madrid to Vancouver.Looking for philosopher stones.It's over there.No, it's over here.What?It's over here.It's over here.It's over here.And we blow the spot.Put your city on the map and it's called the T-Dot.Yeah.It's over here.It's over here.And we blow the spot.Put your city on the map and it's called the T-Dot.Yeah.Oh.Oh.Oh.Oh.