Lyrics:
riding on somebody wave
Standin' on my white picket fence
Looking at both sides
A-la-cartin' that shit like
A little column A; A little column B
Y'all
the next man. (It's true)
I still remember when I used to get my check cashed
Get my hair cut, I hit the streets with my head gassed
Lookin' out for little
safe
Boy check the resume, it's risky business in the A
In the A, in the A, in the A, in the A, uh
A, in the A, in the A, in the A, uh
A, in the A,
Say what you wish, it's yours! True dish
How about a little more baklava?
Have some of column A, try all of column B
I'm in the mood to help you, dude
I'm gifted, I'ma live freer
Can you help me? Am I lookin at you
Can I be peepin you from afar, please, remain calm
Could you be the reason I'm a bomb
More money, more problems
Starboy, but no stardom
Same chart, but different column
Rollin' dice like a brother come from Harlem
I'm on the road,
came from, you see where we at now
That shit's in my bloodline from the go (From the go, from the go)
Little bit of column A, little bit of column B
or did it just taste great?
And if it's equal little bits of column B and column A
Then why is it that when it hits it's me I'm gonna hate?
We got to hit
to blame
Can I get a little back with attack issh?
What do you accomplish, ever can't you diss, diss
pitless bottom of a, and you toss out nigga ass,
That was for 50, little slap on the wrist be warned
I'm unravelling quickly
My squabbles, I'm grappling with your time traveling with me
Try
Chinese, not Hong Kong fui
You know what you want
Yo, cant decide
Column A, Column B
I like fried
Barbeque spare ribs
My fingers I'm lickin'
Waitin'
the park bench to start this
Marcus, Jason, my little brother James
All my brothers from my momma but Andre is just the same
Ain't no uno, we a duo, deuce
It's painted red, the stripe was white
It was eighteen feet from the bow to the stern light
Second hand from a dealer in Atlanta
I rode up with
Was painted red, the stripe was white
It was eighteen feet from the bow to the stern light
Second hand from a dealer in Atlanta
I rode up with
of trouble
A little bit of trouble
I’m really having trouble telling my days from nights
I’m really having trouble finding my place in life
I’m really having
on the ceiling baby
Be my drug
So gon' and be my dealer baby
Look me up
'Cause all I want is you baby
You're my little pusher love girl (Ain't ya?)
Just my
wash of time, we so easily lose sight of the individual tragedies, and the little chance events from which life and death hang in the balance, woven
progress
I come in the tradition of
Harriet Tubman, Ida B. Wells, Ella Baker, and Angela Davis
Mixed with a little bit of Jada Pinkett Smith and Cardi B
the park bench to start this
Marcus, Jason, my little brother James
All my brothers from my momma but Andre is just the same
Ain't no uno, we a duo, deuce
It was painted red the stripe was white
It was eighteen feet from the bow to the stern light
Secondhand from a dealer in Atlanta
I rode up with daddy
and they like the A-Team
Keep my head on the swivel when I serve a dope fiend
Upgraded to a digital from a triple beam
Fucking with me, you better be real
of warming up to
But here come heat along with light
Could be burning bright
Stead of dimming any time that you get criticized
Inner column writer filling up
pollinated by the "Be"
Pac called it the rose that rose from concrete
How do you define divine that finds street?
"Hip bop," the color of my leaves
Not
hittin', boy you won't be gettin'
None of, or in front of, cause every one of
My adversaries, lack, you little son of
O-bit-uary column, and read your name
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