Verse One (Dermo):
We’ll tell you straight, the bull runs the marathons like the biggest tournaments
‘Cause this gritty city life hangs your asses like Christmas ornaments
Unseen in them cinemas; shift locations with large bucks
Even with plenty hurricanes, we never stay washed up
It’s summer all year round; in Dade, there’s no fear found
(If) you step out your mere bounds, we’d force you to clear town
In Little Haiti, land of the cutthroats, where they’re clowning them foes getting pounded by Zoes
(And) the dudes from Richmond and Goulds wild out at center stage; dominate with all kinds of control
We spit the livest of flows; we don’t tolerate half-steppers that put the shucking and jive in their boasts
From the jump, you’ll see the sign at the door), “Never be surprised when we smoke. We’re never hiding the dro”.
We’re fly when we post; don’t trick, but we’re keeping our games tight when approached by the finest of hoes
With stories untold, we’re writing the scrolls of life to get up in them with venoms to shine in them shows
We use elbows and hands to raid your snot box
All praise to Pac Jam, the classic shit since Hot Rocks
When setting drama, suckaz scurry once the shots pop
Down in The Bottom, shottas maintain that top spot

Chorus:
Florida, the melting pot for the cultures
Where the strength from the warriors prey on the vultures
It’s homegrown…
In the tropics, backwoods, and the swamps
Battle-tested, never quitters as we stomp out the comp
It’s homegrown…
In the land where we yearn for the truth
Feel the powers in the numbers from the branch to the root
It’s homegrown…

Verse Two (MERC):
It’s homegrown…
Anybody wanna muhfuckin’ fly, come see me, M-E-R-C
Down where they got that real fire green leaf; ain’t got fire, then you bet’ not beef
Love that place where the sun shine bright; and, if that’s wrong, then I can’t get right
Temp goes up, better hide your ice; niggas come out, better hide your wife
Back in the day, we was on that Splack; girls in the Guess jeans throwing that back
Ain’t gotta guess, we was on that yak (Cognac); gotta go halfway on that sack
Look at these palm trees, calm seas; hate my state, you can palm these
Rain’s coming down like it’s all threes; on the bottom of the map, better pack your strap

Chorus:
Florida, the melting pot for the cultures
Where the strength from the warriors prey on the vultures
It’s homegrown…
In the tropics, backwoods, and the swamps
Battle-tested, never quitters as we stomp out the comp
It’s homegrown…
In the land where we yearn for the truth
Feel the powers in the numbers from the branch to the root
It’s homegrown…