I copped a telescope—
small joint, commercial ****,
straight off the block,
but it ran me a grand.
A thousand bucks! Yo, that’s mad stacks,
a whole lotta bread.
But it’s worth the cheddar.
‘Cause this thing? It’s x200,
peepin’ far out, deep into the distance.
Eyeballs ain’t built for that stretch,
but this scope? ****, it reaches…
not the stars or the moon, nah,
just the window of that high-rise across the way.
Now I’m posted, spyin’ on the neighbors smashin’.

Not ‘cause I can’t pull up some *** on the net—
that ain’t it.
I’m clockin’ ‘em—
how they live, how they beef, how they bang—
‘cause I got this hunch
they doin’ all that **** better than me.
Not sayin’ I’m pressed or green-eyed,
but every time I think someone’s out here outshinin’ me,
I freeze up, mind spinnin’ like a hadron collider.

To the cat who ain’t good with what he got,
who’s buggin’ over life’s big “why,”
who’s always chasin’ somethin’ fatter,
never hyped on himself,
who’s mad for star-gazin’—
that dude’s the one peekin’ through the scope,
catchin’ astronauts up in the ISS,
floatin’ past in low orbit,
starin’ back through the porthole,
flippin’ me the bird.
‘Cause once you touch the stars,
all you wanna do is squint back down,
to Earth,
at you—
the broke-***, washed-up loser.