My pigtails? They lie. My age they construe.
You’re running your hustle like I was new.
I’ve seen you slang dope for a year or two.
I’ve been slamming dope since before you were due.
Your dope man antics far from impress.
Your junk is shit, cut by half I would guess.
I might be a junky but service still rules.
Come at me twisted, you’ll look like the fool.
A kid in hood clothing, your kind’s come and gone.
Twenty years on the streets. I’ve been here all along.
Business is business. Service admired.
You lack certain traits on the streets are required.
Qualify. Loyalty. Honesty. Respect.
Don’t demonstrate these and you’re bound to get wrecked.
You’re lazy. You’re greedy. You’re late and you’re worthless.
Your friends even think that your future is hopeless.
I hustle two Bens day in and day out.
My business has value, of that there’s no doubt.
I gave you one shot. A second? Hell no!
My money is fought for. It’s all about doe.
So laugh while you can. Cut the dope. Pad your bank.
The higher you feel, the harder you’ll tank.
I predict in a year you’ll be reaping what’s due.
I’ll be running these streets. I’m nothing but true.
All fiends hate a snitch, but they love their dope more.
Cross one more person, he’ll settle the score.
When it’s done, when it’s over, you’ll pay for your sin.
If not from your wallet, most certainly your skin.