Like 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.
You’ve got just one shot when you’re running the street.
Your competition is ruthless. You’re already beat.
I might be a junky but service is the rule.
Come at me twisted, I’ll make you look like a fool.
A kid in hood clothing, your kind’s come and gone.
Twenty years on Skid Row. I’ve been here all along.
Business is business. Quality and service admirered.
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.
Even your friends will betrat you. 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 chance. 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 still be running this game. I’m nothing but true.
The Row hates a snitch, but they love their dope more.
Cross one more person, he’ll settle the score.
When it’s done, when you’re finished, you’ll pay for your sin.
If not from your wallet, most certainly your skin.