| Tryna, tryna
|
| Tryna
|
| Man, lost my dog in staircase
|
| Took the highest spot on the podium
|
| Ghost niggas prolly smokin' to the thought of knowin' us
|
| They lost a part of growin' up
|
| Smartest, learned I had to keep a wedge to get out of the rough
|
| Use the clips, ain’t used to disrespect, 'cause we carried enough
|
| I promise I buried the grudge, preparing and carrying grub
|
| Larry Hoops, I was lost in the alley
|
| In the air, but now I sunk
|
| I spun to the loss of my grandmama, buried the dunk
|
| Send 'bout a prayer a month, through the above
|
| Niggas moody but they view at the funk
|
| Ain’t shit to do, they play with food, they rhyme and Rubik’s for fun
|
| But I do what I want, ayy
|
| And I rue what it was later, allude it as such
|
| Confusedly up with paper, I’m shootin' ones with the judges
|
| The same as my brother been with a muzzle, that’s from the cradle
|
| So we goin' to the grave with this shit
|
| If we join the second line of ancestors and hand us a drum, loaded,
|
| a second time
|
| Somethin' scary 'bout airin' out the shit I compress
|
| The fair game, the fair now, the causes
|
| An arm, leg, an arm, leg, and a head
|
| And all greater conquest that takes our partner to rest
|
| My partner, my partner spawned with a nigga red
|
| I’m all on they neck, 'till my car parks, pardon it, fresh
|
| Smart with a few niggas, sparkin' that large percentages
|
| Was all to the wind, the losses come as often as wins
|
| And impossibly thick
|
| Don’t got a job, I only ball off pick-six
|
| I ball with fresh niggas, Lowry had shit lit, it’s Christmas
|
| I only know six niggas been lyin', but we ain’t gon' mention
|
| Who in the stu' and started sweating', told 'em, «It's the kitchen»
|
| You know the rules, and we know how to shoot the loopholes
|
| Who go boop-a-loop, and my kid, though got the kid
|
| And you gon' juug a boogaloo
|
| I been spittin' to rhyme the answer, not definitive, I just cramped it
|
| I was gifted with words, oh damn, I took my lumps, my bruises, moved
|
| What the fuck are you to do?
|
| Every time a nigga didn’t spot me
|
| I had to figure out my own thing
|
| Now we at the precipice droppin'
|
| Harry Potter with the Dub-D's
|
| Magic hands, nigga, what cheese
|
| Had a chance, then it crushed me
|
| We gon' get it by all means
|
| Rest in piece to my rocks, G
|
| Raw fruit in the box, seeds
|
| Let go, then I got wings
|
| I’m seein' red, I’ma charge
|
| You seein' red 'cause you salty
|
| I keep the tears out my mind, reach
|
| I put my fears in a box, like a prayer that you won’t read
|
| Spirited Away, the whole thing
|
| Tearin' away, I won’t leave
|
| See you starin' into old beefs
|
| Ticket booths, where they told me
|
| Thickest thorns on the roses
|
| Pistons roarin' like I’m Rasheed
|
| Pistons roarin' like I’m Ben Wallace
|
| Pistons roarin' like Chauncey
|
| Billups, somethin', 'cause I been drivin'
|
| Every time a nigga didn’t spot me
|
| I had to figure out my own thing
|
| Now we at the precipice droppin' |