my lips begin to quiver and then to shake: my own personal earthquake. you'll never get to the top if you don't act fake. apparently that's what it takes. so i'll go, gat in hand, sat my man by my side. cruising in my ride. rims rotating, hips gyrating, tims pulsating to the beat. yo it's thugged out. five hundred dollars on my feet, but now i ain't got nothing to eat. yo i got a fleet of thugs that i walk on like rugs and squash like bugs and wear earplugs cause they hate my music. yo and i'm paying them five hundred dollars an hour, you'd think they'd have a little respect. my paycheck will come in time and i'll buy them all dimes and make up a crime to rhyme about. that's what i'm about: it's cashflow. so i bash hoes and trash foes, call them assholes. all the mass knows is that i can't get past clothes. and while you write class pros and blast those, my flask grows.
i play till the sun goes down. it amounts to mouth to mouth ressucitation. incarceration is patient when you've got the cash. my stash is limited but could double in a flash. i used to write shit that was definitely ass, but i spit it anyway and got better fast. that's how you do it, never second guess. consider all your shit blessed. come to terms with your mind's incest, and you'll spit heads and tails above the rest. heads and tails above the rest.
