Girl listen, you chat ’bout what you nah know.
Dont touch that! It go off it, leave big hole.
Oh, you thought it was fake, ain’t nothin’ for show.
You said you ride or die baby, well we hittin’ the road.
This hustler works hard.
Pray God bring me peace like Hors d’Oeuvres.
A little at a time, too much make pain worst,
Bite off what I can chew, digest, and move on,
To the next block, spot I lock and hold on.
Folks round my way stagnant, they mold on,
I soldier on, get my smolder on.
The heat, my black scully, get my Moulder on.
The truth is out there. They tap and route here.
‘Cause they want to hear what you yappin’ bout here.
You talk too much, showing off will get you clapped here,
Of repercussion cause you lunchin’ if your moves ain’t clear.
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