If I wasn’t in the rap game,
I’d probably have a key knee-deep in the crack game.
Because the streets is a short stop:
Either you’re slinging crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot.
Lyrically, I’m supposed to represent;
I’m not only the client, I’m the player president.
Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns,
As I crush so-called Willies, thugs, and rapper-dons.
I had a cigarette for breakfast, just for beginners,
Cried for my lunch, and sleep for dinner.