I’m not a West Coast rapper,
I’m not a West Coast rapper, I’m not an East Coast rapper, I’m a French rapper — get my slur right. From Spokane nights to the overseas flights, Now the whole squad eatin’ candlelit life. Pain in my chest but the chain sit nice, Still got demons that I fight every night. They judged my walk, they laughed at my slang, Now they all copy the way that I came. Ocean grown OG carved in the name, Came from cold streets and I still hold flame. French smoke blowin’ out the rooftop view, City lights dance when I slide right through. Never switched sides, I just outgrew fools, Now they watch online tryna study my moves. I’m not a West Coast rapper, I’m not an East Coast rapper, I’m a French rapper — get my slur right. Black leather coat with the sharks on stitch, Gold teeth flash when I talk my shit. Used to have nothin’, now I walk like this, Still remember every night I was sick. Lost friends to the drugs and the fast life spin, Some never made it, some locked in the pen. That’s why I rap with a scar-filled grin, Turned my pain to a soundtrack win. Ain’t no label made me, I survived my own, Built this voice from the cracks in stone. Now every beat feel like sittin’ on a throne, French rapper vibes but the streets still home. Still hear sirens when the beat cut low, Still see ghosts from the roads I know. Cold rain fallin’ on the downtown glow, Tryna stay solid while my heart move slow. Demons said “boy don’t drown in pride,” But the pain got deep and the nights got wild. Had to learn real fast who fake, who ride, Who smile in your face while they pray you die. Now I step in the room like “bon-zi French talk mixed with the trap couture. Whole fit clean but my soul got wars, Made it through hell now they ask for more. I done seen fentanyl tears on cheeks, Friends disappear in a matter weeks. So I speak for the lost that can’t still speak, Every verse got scars underneath. I’m not a West Coast rapper, I’m not an East Coast rapper, I’m a French rapper — get my slur right. Late night rides with the city asleep, Thinking ‘bout the times I ain’t have heat. Now the crowd scream loud when I hit these beats, But success don’t erase what the past still keeps. I still got rage in the bloodline veins, Still got love for the ones in pain. If I make it big I won’t change my name, Sharkey Ocean Grown OG stay the same. Champagne dreams with a trench coat stare, French rapper style with the rebel glare. Every tattoo tell a truth laid bare, I survived every moment they thought unfair. So when they ask where I’m from tonight, I just grin while the flashlights strike — “I’m not West Coast, not East Coast hype… I’m French rapper born from surviving life.”
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I’m not a West Coast rapper, I’m not an East Coast rapper, I’m a French rapper — get my slur right. From Spokane nights to the overseas flights, Now the whole squad eatin’ candlelit life. Pain in my chest but the chain sit nice, Still got demons that I fight every night. They judged my walk, they laughed at my slang, Now they all copy the way that I came. Ocean grown OG carved in the name, Came from cold streets and I still hold flame. French smoke blowin’ out the rooftop view, City lights dance when I slide right through. Never switched sides, I just outgrew fools, Now they watch online tryna study my moves. I’m not a West Coast rapper, I’m not an East Coast rapper, I’m a French rapper — get my slur right. Black leather coat with the sharks on stitch, Gold teeth flash when I talk my shit. Used to have nothin’, now I walk like this, Still remember every night I was sick. Lost friends to the drugs and the fast life spin, Some never made it, some locked in the pen. That’s why I rap with a scar-filled grin, Turned my pain to a soundtrack win. Ain’t no label made me, I survived my own, Built this voice from the cracks in stone. Now every beat feel like sittin’ on a throne, French rapper vibes but the streets still home. Still hear sirens when the beat cut low, Still see ghosts from the roads I know. Cold rain fallin’ on the downtown glow, Tryna stay solid while my heart move slow. Demons said “boy don’t drown in pride,” But the pain got deep and the nights got wild. Had to learn real fast who fake, who ride, Who smile in your face while they pray you die. Now I step in the room like “bon-zi French talk mixed with the trap couture. Whole fit clean but my soul got wars, Made it through hell now they ask for more. I done seen fentanyl tears on cheeks, Friends disappear in a matter weeks. So I speak for the lost that can’t still speak, Every verse got scars underneath. I’m not a West Coast rapper, I’m not an East Coast rapper, I’m a French rapper — get my slur right. Late night rides with the city asleep, Thinking ‘bout the times I ain’t have heat. Now the crowd scream loud when I hit these beats, But success don’t erase what the past still keeps. I still got rage in the bloodline veins, Still got love for the ones in pain. If I make it big I won’t change my name, Sharkey Ocean Grown OG stay the same. Champagne dreams with a trench coat stare, French rapper style with the rebel glare. Every tattoo tell a truth laid bare, I survived every moment they thought unfair. So when they ask where I’m from tonight, I just grin while the flashlights strike — “I’m not West Coast, not East Coast hype… I’m French rapper born from surviving life.”
Respect 🤜🤛