So now you're a big baller and a shot-caller.
You went to a drop-top Cadillac from an 8th
Street shack.
I see one thing you learned was to never look back,
leaving vivid memories of friends turned out on crack.
How dare you sympathize with a man hooked on a
drug you sell.
You hate the claim ownership of your ticket to
a one-way hell.
While you console yourself with chronic and cardiac,
you destroy your own people by selling crack.
Shootouts on a corner cause another brother's
calling your bluff.
187s on a weekly basis just to prove that
you're tough.
Things go good and you lay low for a while.
The girl you've always loved gives birth to
your first child.
As you look into your child's eyes, you see a
glimmer of hope.
You dream of putting her through college with
the cheese you stacked selling dope.
Your destiny is written. This is simply fate.
You're killed by a dope fiend and a so-called
friend who's known to play a hate.
It's already written. You won't see the next century.
If you're not killed in the streets, you'll die
in a penitentiary.
As you walk around sleep, but not sleep as in
catching Z's,
perhaps subconsciously brain-dead due to
Baller's disease,
get your priorities straight.
Man, bump that. You out to stack this cheese to
get that candy apple Lac.
Water bills due, lights off, phone, no tone.
Shit, nigga, can't keep track.
Well, Everything'll work itself out.
So fuck it. You out to get a sack.
Then up in smoke once again as you dwindle,
twist, and spin.
Hanging with your homies. Your boy just got a
smooth-ass ride.
Candy, paint, bowl, system. Oh, yeah.
The doors don't work, so you got to climb inside.
You chasing paper on the cut. It's time for you
to re-up.
You're back in the ride. You see a fine hoe pass.
But in the back of your vision, you see
cherries flash.
You try to explain that it ain't your ride, and
the dope just happened to be found on your side.
You look up, and your boy straight found.
You start to feel like a wet food stamp.
All alone and nowhere to go, you try to contact
your free world hoe.
But when out, you treated diamonds like glass.
Still expecting her to be down, even though you
waxed this ass and that ass.
They say it all turned out to be just a myth,
but I'm a true believer.
CJ does exist. Everything that look good ain't.
And that's straight fact.
And then from relying on me to AZT, cause you
chose not to sport the Jimmy hat.
Said you didn't like condoms. Didn't like the
way they felt.
But when you raw, dawg, you fucked yourself.
The bite of a female dog containing rabies.
A smaller name, but much bigger than your balls disease.
My sisters, you know I love you, but I gotta
speak the show no truth.
Half us ain't concerned with shit but being
cute when we raise the roof.
Nails done, pedicure, lashes for your eyes.
Something you just keep forgetting.
Oh yeah, your baby's school supplies.
Girl, he got a clean ass ride.
Why sell yourself so cheap?
If you'll just hear what I'm saying, you may
begin to peep.
Yeah, he looking good, feeling fine, even
smelling like a rose.
But baby girl, his only thought is how quick he
can get you up out them now clothes.
You go ahead and give it up, cause he spread it
around a little cheese.
Not thinking, you lay down with dogs, you bound
to come up with fleas.
Two weeks later, he laid back at your crib with
the remote.
While him and his homies chill eating smoke.
You entertain the thought that he's a baller's
bonopolis and shit's all good in your metropolis.
He sweetens you up to tote the whole.
Little do you know, you about to sell your soul.
See, if you'd have used your head rather than
dwelling on bread, you might not be facing this
here 25 Fed.
Behind bars like a clown, you start to realize
that he ain't even down.
His bread go back to his Mama house and he
never claimed to be your spouse.
You pray to God as you drop to your knees in
need of forgiveness due to baller's disease.