Letras
Holding my breath in the crawl space
Weight taped to my body
Barbarians at gate, Benghazi
Wait
Tape ain't even out yet how the hell they get a copy?
Survive by the grace
Grace Mugabe
Averted eyes advise passing through the building lobby
You don't wanna smoke?
National Geographic negroes cooking coke
Anthropologist watch negroes sell dope
A huddle corner's corner stores jot notes
Hand to hand, much as they forefathers before
It's a good trope, trope (It's a good trope)
Fascinating stuff
Thumb and forefinger where the coke was clutched
Four million USD hovering over some mud huts
It's nuts
It's not the heat it's the dust
Sour when the wind gust, crush
Broad smile copping legal weed from fake hole in the wall
I don't want to go see Nas with an orchestra at Carnegie Hall
No man of the people, I wouldn't be caught dead with most of y'all
"Don't call me again" what I shoulda said when he called
Broad smile copping legal weed from fake hole in the wall
I don't want to go see Nas with an orchestra at Carnegie Hall
No man of the people, I wouldn't be caught dead with none of y'all
"Don't call me again" what I'll say when you call
It's just me in the spider hole
That's the best part
From here the war seem really far
The mirror was a shot
No beef, I cook the chicken in lard
Crept in your house like a thief, propped your window ajar
First time I saw them put a trap in the car
Eyes wide
Felt like the internet
Snipers in the minaret
Little tiny spoon for the mignonette
The job was to sit there all day and press refresh
Decline politely, proceeded to spread the blame widely
Rubber gloves
Crisp lapels
Bloodshot in high society, you know his turds don't smell
To the desperate souls spells
Confident I'd never see him again
"And if so what?"
You get what you pay for in the end
Yeah, she's got her own game goin' on
What does that mean?
You know what it means
You've got your game goin' on
I've got my game
What- what's, uh, what's your game?
Everybody's got a game