Can't pretend wit' history or ever fathom it's road of peril...
My old apparel has gotten me on the old & narrow...
That's old Dinero, fallen asleep on the train to go...
Don't have a target in mind, I'm feeling my aim's is slow...
Don't ever barter wit' critics all retarded for lyrics
to such a high standard that you'd need a pilot to try lander'.
This chit chatter, is nothing but tit n' tat for me.
The higher echelon is a rhapsody... the leak's apparent
like tampon's... going over MAX compacity.
Pissing themselves... then call it orange juice for the faculty.
Now back to thee'... slave trade, I call it Hip Hop
in this day an age I stay amazed by the complete decaying phase..

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