From the hood
From the hood and I stood on them burque streets, we stick together like Cuban links. I had a nine on my waist, guns I straddle 44 at the crib with an ivory handle. I’m the rocker, betty crocker cooking cookies and cakes, V12 to blow it up as my coc inflates. I’m a swanga, Gucci on my hanger, just bought my cousin on the ranch a ford wrangler, I like to ride horses like mustangs and porches, pain is my producer leader of the dark forces. Striking like matches, dropping like ashes. I only buy dancers if their paying collage classes sucka. Swisha sweet rolling, pockets still swollen, might meet a chick and take her fine ass bowling, money out the colleen, benz aint stolen, and I got hoes even one that hewian. Slang’en more white balls then the knollen brain, 9 with the silence, might turn to vilence, this for all my pipe token, pot smoken clients, and my grass is much greener, New Mexico beaner, hooking up with a real famous R & B singer. Blowing like a tuba, wet like a scuba, candy coated suger I’m a balla ina hoppa, heatea heart breaka, bloody shirt stain, jumping on my diving board bout to do a gaina. Blades on my benz, tons of fake friends, spraid down my seat with the cherry fragrance sucka.
From Daniel P from YDDC