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The crowd whispers
There’s no more fight in him
My enemies scream stick a knife in him
I study, research, then research my research
My kids be like
Dads a drone straight metallic
There is no guy in him
Chartered every direction
There is no guiding him
Synchronized with my past life
I done been back to that spot twice
Like that guy on twelve monkeys
Trying to save my granny from dying twice
I’m a paint job that has never been polished
But I spit like whale blow holes
And I still shine bright
Like old ladies with cookies I’m that nice
I was raised around
Drugs, bums, and crack pipes
But I managed to educate myself
And separated from that life
