“This is not a business.”
“I said this not a bidness.”
“Well give it to me anyways”.
Tired of hearing the same-old story of “Sway you ain’t got the answers.”
Following the pattern battered in cancer for the ears.
Years have passed and Chem 4 ain’t havin’ it.
I’m looking at Athens.
Munchin’ on liquid potatoes.
Let me say this.
Labor don’t match the payload.
Payload don’t match the halos across theses heads they think they have.
Air-balls is what they throwing.
Shade is what’s comin’.
The bill is always paid in full.
Nappy-ass scholars play a different game and snort adverted-payola.
Gone ahead and write in Crayola.
Matched in blood that run a day old.
Its all in yah mind…
Soiled yall trousers now.
Go plant a fire, I mean a tree somewhere.
“Well give it to me anyways.”