S.O.G.

I need to get like Angie Stone or Jill Scott on this shit
Shit’ll be fire
Relations stats is at work
Niggas switch they latest bitch
I Workshop’d my relationship, while working on my greatest hits
Eat your plate, it taste like shit
Pass the blunt I take a hit
Never smoking so that stint has got me on some hazy shit
Bad toungue or taste buds
He crazy girl, You talk too much
Silence, I don’t like that stuff
Told you once I don’t like to touch
Keep them lips zipped, unless you wanna press your luck
Pressures up
But see I’m trying not to give a fuck
So now you see me lounging out on Beacon
While my fucking speakers tweaking
Like who I’m reaching, I don’t see them
Got me singing like The Weekend
So hopefully surburbans find my sounds more appealing
But I don’t need em
Been on my mind since Cy designed my latest kick
Eatables that still ain’t hit
Till I’m on the plane and shit
Now I trip
So all my Beer is on some foreign shit
They’re flows is on some boring shit
Me and my bro on some scoring shit
I’m over here like Tarontino
Where’s my glory bitch?
Nothing!
Yo Yo Yo, here’s the hook motherfucker
Zip zero been stingy with dinero
Now I got a bit, you see me trying to make it plural
Still a row is where always seem to keep my lucky ducks
Middle fingers up
Screaming how much I don’t give a fuck
Fly in the QC and play a game of craps
Drinking natty ice and pabst
Cheapest keep a dozen raps
Keep the fucking buzzards bumping, daddy lumpkins
Like your heart gone thru convolutions
Or revolutions not abusing
Richtor scale
Neo and Trin
Hat high, so the sky can touch the freaking brim
Saving ends
Mobbin' thru the wind with my friends
Multiply my orpheus like Morpheus
Red, blue pill and them fucking blondie twins
Where the hell they hiding him?
On the island, riding to some rhyming
On my alpinin'
Or matter fact, I mean alpina, shout to Pittman
Buy a Beemer
And it’s still Fuck Tinsley like he’s Hurricane Katrina, see ya