So when we gone chill?
Lips cocked and ready to aim
I've got the answer to a timeless question in the shape of a bullet.
Pants around your ankles
Confidence on your waist
What you need to do is put a belt on, get a job, and comb ya damn hair.
Point.
When you gone do that for me?
What your man don't know won't hurt him.
It won't hurt him but it will hurt me my dignity and if youre not lucky, your body.
Aim.
Man I rep..
Stop right there please.
Nigga you ain't GD, Vice Lord, A Blood, or a Crip.
Just because your cousins uncles brothers best friends fiances sister used to talk to a real thug and taught you a handshake don't make you a quote unquote thug.
Release.
Blood splattered.
Blood splatters.
Blood splatter on the concrete of your manhood.
The hood didn't make you, you made yourself hood.
Your calculations must've been off because a real thug doesn't thug for the hell of it.
He thugs because he has no choice.
If he had the choice he wouldn't be street living.
Trust me.
Yet you follow in the footsteps of someone's footprints who dreamed of bigger footprints for his own footsteps to one day fill.
Sirens whirled.
Sirens whirling.
Sirens whirl in the background of your abandoned ambitions.
They're dead because you aborted them before they could even take their first breath.
Death.
Dead.
Dying is your soul, your humanity, your sanity.
Alive.
Lives.
Living is your stupidity and need for swag.
Ha.
So when we gone chill?
We're going to chill when you correct your image, language, and lifelong dream.
We'll chill when you find yourself buried amongst all the rubble of wannabe teenage thugs before you and reality shoots a rock at your temple.
Lips hot and smoking, I've run out of answers.
But I will never run out of ammo.
Reload.