Far from the hills of Tennessee and straight into your home,
I’m cursed to live my life like I was born in ancient Rome,
To poor to be a prince, I got to scrap for what I own,
In this dirt, in the heat, on the grind, I make these bones,
From Beasties to the Lady and these BUNKS born in the 80s,
Destined to be a gladiator since I was a baby,
Hard-headed, thick-skinned, and just a little crazy,
Got a thousand BUNKS behind me, we’re never going to fade, see?
Cause we’re gladiators, send these haters to our coliseum,
We’ll feed ‘em to the lions, it’s the last time that you’ll see ‘em,

We’re gladiators walking tall, dust covers our feet,
Gladiators, face to face you don’t want to meet up with these,
Gladiators, cause you know we ain’t never scared,
We are what we are cause these BUNKS ain’t never cared.

Everday I’m taking shots, directly to my self-esteem,
Feel the pressure building slowly killing drive to reach this dream,
You need my time? I need that cream. One Mic Studios ain’t free,
Pay them bills, pay that rent, buy them diapers, don’t you see?
A working man, who works his plan, own the label, run the clan,
Call the shots and make the suits, put their money in my hand,
Independent, underground, unmatched noise is how we sound,
Navigating through your system, feel us rumble then touchdown,
Adapt to life, play these games, make these moves without a shame,
Expect the worst and when it hits, be the first to turn the page,
Be the first to flee the cage, spread your wings and fly away,
Leave it all behind for something greater than a pile of change,
Increase the pace, change of tastes, flavors fading with some haste,
Its time for spices, BUNKS are nice kid…