Get wit' memotherfucker don't sleep
Look like james vanderbeek on eight grams of tweak,
I'm spittin hungry like ain't shit up on my dinner plate
"here's my address, meet you at my place at eight"
But most niggas love nothin' so i made this tape
Flash forwards then back to him in seventy eight,
But they sold jello in the paint
At twenty eight i'll have plenty of taste
Police on your mama phone, talking bout your baby gone
Out came some shit looking like a lincoln log eight feet long,
Knocked down seven times, and i get up eight
That involve ballpark franks and silver duct tape
Don't violate my patience i'm waiting, to kill a man
I was only eight when mamma had to move to amsterdam
GO BACK TO WRITE A SONG ABOUT ANOTHER TOPIC !
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