Shout to all my brothers and my sisters out in FergusonĪnd you gon be the next to drop in front of that donut shop Then have her feeding me papayas and grapes, I'm an acquired tasteĪll you do is test pros, I'll shoot you while you protest Lean off the bottle then fly a nigga queen off to Cabo Then keep sweeping long enough to clean off his body Street sweeper, knock his head clean off his body
Shoot you while we watch the tables turn like a DWYCK scene Sweep up the streets till the clique clean Hidden inside three or four twelve hundred crates I'll elaborate, sixteen pistols and extendos I will board a jet cheap, fly to where you're sure to get deep K's in the floorboards, stays in the Waldorf These are the sounds of days that are passed I'm posturing with them niggas that were supposed to been I'm in the building and this my grand opening I'm sicker than most of them from the 'Go so the flow don't end You in Illinois, we don't know what can cure 'em Straight out of Chitown where they get that lean offįiends cough for serum, hitters rally rally like it's Durham
Watch it vibrate, while I take the wings off The bond that I have with the Quran and the math That knew me when we was boxing niggas up in Julian Salutation to the nation of the Nubians and hooligans My daily operation is to spark the population We was stepping in the Chi before we knew the ladderĬlimb up till your time's up, a daily reminder I'm dumping a hit man's salary worth of quarters down the world's largest wishing wellĪ rival of survival, idle movement and chatter You know they say that you dying if you ain't living good The kind of frame I prefer to see the world throughīitches know the score like Sheryl Swoopes I'm just trying to leave my mark but I've got the same backstory as a tatted tear No plaques or trophies, I already have them here What you draw falls on deaf ears like Van Gogh
So tomorrow, in hindsight, if you an artist, death's near, the fans know Kind of like asking "what time is karma gon find Solar" Motherfuckers can't rhyme no more about rhyme no more In my shoes, you're gon need Flintstone feetĪnd room for baggage, and room in your Nikes The other half of my clique don't know half of the kids they having Listed it as an independent backing like Macklemore I bought my bitch an ass then wrote it off on my taxes I'm out on the west copping like Axel Foley, ask the police Kind of like an armless actor playing an action role No snatching though, watch what you put my fucking name in I walk by a so called tough guy, watch him tuck his chain in My mind frame is "I'm forever making my payments" My nigga, my nigga, I would go get it myself, but I'm famousĪnd I ain't never changing, I'm never done paying my dues I'm sending my killers to the store for Patron and Danish
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