that gold and yellow, grey suit, motorola flip phone in right hand, bundle of papers with scribbly writing on them balanced against his waist with his left hand, looking young, tired and efficient, walking past a giant poster for the new shyne album stapled to plywood construction walls, hurrying back to his office after a lunch meeting six blocks down, and in the bottom of his head playing cinematic overthetopc just blaze beats and rapping in a deep warm frightening voice that's impossible to duplicate with his mouth, rapping about shiny black sedans sliding past him in downtown traffic and secretaries hurrying back from lunch in pinstripe pants and caramel boots and being a businessman. on the dashboard of our car when we walk into 7-11, with the music left playing loud and the doors locked, buying diet coke slurpees and a little box of plastic tipped swisher sweets. and cruising our own downtown with windows rolled down to cheekbone level, blaring prison phone raps, holding smoke in our mouths until the slow to a stop at a redlight, blow it out while peeking over the tops of the windows to glare at guys in tiburons. licking the sweet saliva and tobacco honey out of the plastic tip, taking corners very slowly.
ALL I NEED IN THIS WORLD OF SIN IS A CROOKED LAWYER BIG RIMS AND A MAC 10
GRIND THRU THE CITY LIKE I'M USED TO THE SHIT
FUCK YOUR VEST NIGGA MY SHELLS'LL CHEW THRU THAT SHIT
CATCH YOUR BREATH YOU AIN'T HEARD ABOUT THAT NIGGA 'PO?
MURDER CASES, DIAMOND FACES, MET HAT LOW
LEAVIN PIECES OF YOUR BRAIN ON YOUR CAR DO'
LOOKIN GULLY IN THAT BENT OR THAT R-O
L-L SEE YOU NIGGAS IN HELLL
SOON AS THEY SET MY BAIL I MAKE ANOTHER SALE
SHIT I SET MY MIND AT AN EARLY AGE
I WAS EITHER GON BE PAID OR AN EARLY GRAVE
WHAT THE FUCK I GOT TO HAVE BLOCKS TO SMASH
LOTS OF CASH DROPS AND ASS
THIS IS THE TRUTH I PROBABLY DIE IN MY COUPE
I BET WHEN THEM BITCHES COME AND GET ME I'MA SHOOT