As the vacant plateau urged to be occupied,
old people danced on the side,
with old music doing the electric slide…
Neglected by ill rifles which stand to the side,
like a civilian on the bus stop looking for a ride…
It’s cold outside, but still I’ma ride…
Tired of standing, but too stubborn to sit…
If death is a dog, I guess life is a bitch…
Young Trojans just tryna get rich…
They nodding their heads,
while they bending their knees,
choppin’ haters down like trees…
With words why they beggin’ me please,
laying down with dogs,
now they wake up with fleas,
just know they ain’t get them from me…
Why do the dogs chase cats,
when the cat chase the rat,
got a hitter escaping haters to the back…
Hustlers still flippin’ bricks like acrobats…
African syllables become habitat
of sincere words that I spit to you…
Live wire leap, and time bomb too,
fools on go as the Trojan roll…
RSC, T.G. mean the hitters on go, leggo…