suburban life leaves the muscles in your strong arm atrophied.
too much complacency and not enough stackin' cheese.
nigga tryin' to eat. i need cake, fuck the calories.
diet if you want, i'm workin' toward a fat salary.
"yo, word on the street, frank, is that you somethin' sweet."
cats talk beef, but they allergic red meat.
talk big dough like i'm unaware that talk is cheap.
chicks talk shit, but when i'm present, don't hear a peep.
huh. guess i forgot where i came from.
ran into an old homie, told me that i changed some.
had to. moms went to jail plowin' snow.
tryin' to get us out the hood, scared her son would be next.
when your moms risk her ass traffickin' them O's
just to make your life better, man, you gotta show respect.
but folk hate peace like the Bush administration.
that explains why these lame motherfuckers keep hatin'.
i mean really hatin'.
and not that bullshit you find on your twitter timeline.
trust me, there's a fine line.
hate is when a homie play friendly while constructin' plots.
need a cooler story, bro. your movie's never gettin' shot.
it's why i keep my circle smaller than a wedding band.
very few homies on the team, that's including fam.
and if you feelin' froggy, leap, nigga take a chance.
bust a move, stop talkin' with your rapper hands.
niggas love fuckin' with the devil till its time to dance.
make you disappear. i'm a magic nigga. bagger vance.


fancy myself a "hippie," but my reptillian brain lust violence
like everybody else's. the upperbrain is helpless.
self preservation is the first law of nature.
figured that's why folk always acting all selfish.
fuck 'em. i'm a get this dough and mind my binnis.
frank is in the game for love, but really could use the spinach.
fuck a day job, but i ain't bout the trappin' life.
and i ain't quite naive enough to think 'cause i be rappin' nice.
that folks are willing to give up their bread like diabetics.
though i keep hope alive, i know reality will dead it.
tried to do the college thing, but i really didn't feel it
like a size queen taking pipe less than 12 inches.
disillusioned by the lame niggas and fake bitches.
and suckers tryin' to test me like a pop quiz.
what is it about me that make 'em wanna bout me?
put me in a box, then they try to ten count me.
walk' to the percussion of my own drums, son, fuck your rhythm.
i see you homie, don't make me go dumb like ralph wiggum.
have you spillin' your guts like a dutch when you when split 'em.
these newports'll take my life long before you get to kill 'im.