In “Broad Day Viewpoints,” Benny the Butcher and his Black Soprano Family collaborators contrast the hunger for street credibility with the emptiness of chasing viral fame. The verses move through grim transactions, fentanyl’s arrival in a small town, and the constant pressure of parole, all while insisting that real survival deserves recognition. The image of a rose growing from concrete captures that stubborn persistence, beauty forced out of hardship. The song lands as a defiant claim that loyalty and lived experience outweigh any outside list or platform.
Broad Day Viewpoints Lyrics by Benny the Butcher
(Feat. Rick Hyde, Black Soprano Family, Fuego Base)
What’s that noise?
Yeah, look
I’m tired of rappers and these places on these lists
If you wanna put me anywhere, bitch, put me in position
While you tryna make it go viral, I’m tryna make a difference
It’s some niggas in my hood that ain’t gon’ make it, but they gifted
It’s niggas dunkin’ up the way that’s better than Lillard
I woke up with a ten, went to bed with his sister
We got now, you niggas next still
If a brick of Fentanyl don’t change your life, I bet you meth will
My plug in Hartford got the best deals
I go and buy one
He let me take two like a X pill
Everything that’s on my neck real
You should invest still
Everything green like the Jets field
It’s ironic my plug in Buff drive a Yukon
I couldn’t get better rates if I had coupons
Fuck with Ricky, nigga, you gone
If I roll that window down, it ain’t to pass the Gray Poupon
Put fifty grams on the sixty, still was too strong
We move on
Remember times was harder than a futon
How we got out them situations, boy, we need ovations
The only way you gon’ be virtuous is havin’ patience
Shoot till I hit somethin’, I got nada aim
Still catch a jux if it’s a lot of ‘caine
It’s BSF, it ain’t no hotter gang
You niggas get paid to talk, but y’all rats, not Charlamagne
Ten P’s, Tim Hardaway
I can hit you down the street
‘Cause you ain’t coming where my daughter lay
They go for twenty-one like Slaughter Gang
I can sell ’em whole or break it down and flood it like a water main
Introduced fent to a slow town
Somebody Narcan buddy, I don’t know how
I think you put it in his nose
Rick, slow down
We can’t leave our prints on shit in case it go down
I see it now, we in oranges like “Go Browns”
Tradin’ war stories, facin’ thirty-two like Jim Brown
‘Cause I ain’t makin’ no sounds
That don’t get you no crowns
You tried to dive in his story and cordon and y’all both drowned
I could middleman the girl, ain’t got a lot of boy
The batch landed, feel like a kid that just got a toy
P.O. say I’m going back if I’m not employed
But I ain’t never had a job, I’m like Martin boy
I used to walk right in your crib like Cole
Now I’m walking out the office with niggas like Hov
I shared the stage with that nigga J. Cole
Out of concrete, the rose still grows, motherfucker, uh
You hear that? (Yeah)
These are the real Sopranos
