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Have you had the wonderful misfortune of ever meeting my nine? Whether chrome or black, plastic or rubber gripped she pines for the time when she can stand @ attention, waiting in eager anticipation, selecting standing ovations with pre assigned projectile evictions.

Now this next paragraph might makes ya laugh, when a brotha rolls a blunt and his breath smells like pure ass - ok class, 10 hip hop pts if u idee the lst paragraph

But back to the clap talk for a second, it was always my favorite helped an angry nigga feel the hate inside his ears - wondered if he had it in em when ordered to park hollows in between the ears of his peers, but that's when them other cats flashed that chrome, licked them shots, and missed my dome.
Was like 20 back then, that's when I developed the phantom, ghost like qualities back then, listened when NaS told me sleep was the cousin - so never was I sleeping again nah cousin.

Decided to grab the mic for real, back then. Burnaz captured my minds eye metaphor back then, 4 fifths, 380's, 12 Gage, & dessert ezy spitting loogies wit intention of twistin icons & leakin em wit they chest breathin' wheezy, stayed eazy nigga ... wasn't fashioned to be blastin, matriculated up the field to avoid my under achieving ass from being sent to Iraq - fuck it black - tried to forget while I smoked where I was rollin it at … That’s about the time when I met a man whose neck, ear, wrist, and pinky ring gleams with a unique gift for touching the nerve of young ghetto dreams ...

This is dedicated to bad bitches who moonlight as day time chiropractors, sexuality discreetly bubbling like espresso foam in a warm Amsterdam coffee shop. If I could figure out your name with my psychic pheromone capabilities, I'd stop my preoccupation concerning the hue of your Vicky inspired thong and bra ensemble, I respect your gangsta though, bx authentic hip hop on that first night splashed beyond recognition I peeped you zoning to Rakim's "The Punisher", instantly celebrating the location of my kismet ...

Took the ladder to success escalator style, the personal blueprint of spago blowing muthafuckaz twisted in 7 jeans, D&G eye covers, and newborn baby clean footwear, crystal clear ice skating rinks with rainbows fruitfully multiplied throughout the land

My style is sick like high school mono, when I spit that heavy shit transformational conversions opens doors to unlimited choices as vehicles for cultural revolution … While still clockin fat ass' on project chickens sportin’ 5411's blasted from the scent recoiling from the body of my buddy.

It was either the pistol, the pulpit, the mic, or the pen