Anybody Wan Jus Chill? [Erykah Badu—“Sometimes”]
They say I’m not that good, but bitch when I go bad.
I’m in and out the hood, that shit what make me mad.
No, I don’t mean angry, and it’s fuck you pay me;
but this a love song, or a mixtape.
Blurry, like miss take, but that’s what this ain’t.
Tired of ear rape. Tired of low IQ rappers taking piss takes.
Where’s the pride in the art? Who else still risk take?
Who else a president?
Who else a resident still relevant on this plane?
I ain’t no CEO to borrow beats and complain.
What I’m willing, I won’t say but y’all should sign me,
‘cause if they don’t, they might confine me when they find me.
That’s not a threat, or a warning; that’s just love, ho.
Unwriting loops and samples, ‘cause that be how love go.
Singing GoGo in The ‘Go. Cold cream, helado.
Like Ms. Badu, “On & On”, I guess how I go.
I request guns, and so called friends afraid to give me one.
I begged for pussy, my roommate to rich to give me some.
I guess that’s love, huh? Fuck I’m supposed to do?
Can’t get a job at UPS, but I did all that school,
and yeah, I’m published too. Might have award, or two.
Breaking records, making records, looking like a Foo
just to save a world. Of recent, just my soul.
Can’t afford to lose again- I know where I’ma go.
My cousins getting old. My fam lookin’ like hos,
and all day Bloomberg telling me y’all waste y’all shit on gold.
But, I’m not mad at it. Fuck all y’all crab addicts.
Fucking haters clamping neighbors for a grab at it.
I’ll never be ashamed again, ‘cause got damn, look at them.
I post up playgrounds, walk whole cities; beat wagons again.
Don’t pull me over, pig. Don’t pat me down, my nig.
You locked up my big brothers for weed charges. We was kids.
MBAs and GREs. Man, just hand me a Sig.
Tell NRA, if they gon’ pay, I sell ammo to kids.
Sold like 6 souls for this. My seed went ghost for this.
They daddies paid for doctors; to be honest don’t know what that is-
maybe homicide, or maybe genocide.
Nobody on my side, but God. I’m still alive.
Hike through West Park in my Ralph Lo, call that suicide.
I ain’t no Eddie Murphy, and my record ain’t dirty.
So why it take me a whole month to get a background check?
Why I’m working retail, ‘cause karma ain’t back round yet?
I don’t have time for patience. I’m sick of getting robbed.
Don’t let me pass that Marine test- I swear I’m dropping bombs.
Don’t care you look like me, don’t care you booked, my B;
don’t care you took my D, don’t care you hooked, my G.
Swear this my last time cussin’. My next album going platinum.
Either that, or I’ma take out loans, and hire Maxim.
Housing all y’all college coeds, just to live like kings;
‘cause y’all buying shit, but steal my titanium rings.
My brothers, wives, sisters- fuck love. That shit just blister.
I’m like Rihanna’s mister: fuck love, that shit just blister.
They told me go home, like they don’t know I don’t have one;
and I keep having dreams my girlfriend ripped my Magnums.
This not to say that I’d be upset if I had one;
but what the fuck? I’m homeless, and you poppin’ Magnums?
You takin’ trips too? You flying first class?
You let that nigga that’s just your friend fuck you in the ass?
Spent every cent I could on ‘quipment just to get past,
and all the haters tried to say I blew it all on grass.
Guess ‘cause I’m skipping class. Like I’m not doing work.
And these fuck phonies and their labels only makes it worse.
A song’s like 4 minutes. A movie, couple hours.
A website not that hard. Y’all really charge thousands of dollars?
But Rel Heart can’t get one. But Rel Heart can’t get one?
Sorry, y’all shit is dumb. Got grown folks suckin’ thumbs.
This shit just ass backwards. My old friend hack passwords;
think he tell all my secrets ‘cause he jealous of a masters
I never even got. That’s why I fucked them thots.
I got no trust for all you shit turds claiming that you’re not...
From the mixtape, "love".
By Cloud Heart.
A KrOŏKs® Production.
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All rights reserved.
- Hip-hop & Rap