Album: Dead Presidents 2 (2013)The Walk In
Ok I know I still ain't dropped my album, right?
But my account's still extracted and my swag's still actin, call me 50 flights up
Like a bachelor, bet your bitch think I'm platinum right?
You wonderin why I'm still rappin, right?
But my daughter got my hustle game in order
And I don't shit bout Pampers but I'm learnin how to wrap em, right?
Niggas sales ain't stackin right
Your label fucked up, album wasn't packaged right
I'm a student of that caine era
EPMD Rakim, gold chain era
I grew up in that real cocaine era
Not this rap game cocaine era
Them auyers on Broadway, you always had it
If you got it that was when you had to get it
This ain't rappin, this is real man's talk from a real mass nigga
Fuck your favorite tell him save it, I don't feel that nigga
Got some young slimes that'll kill that nigga
With his coupe he went stearin and it's real my nigga
Money still multiplyin
And my nigga still totin iron
'Cause the diamonds on my body still blindin
And a nigga might get fancy and we might have to remind him
What bullets do to flesh, in your house swagged out
End up a bloody mess, leave him stretched, nothing less
Nah, motherfuck em all
I show niggas love, they push my back against the wall
And now I'm on it, giving all these kids grown men bars
Back on my vintage shit, the flow stone washed, nigga
Back on my vintage shit, the flow stone washed