another verse i laid on my our demo.. holla back if its wick wick wack
up untill the sunrise, im workin on these rhymes.. anotha day another dollar, im competin for mine/ ask you to read between the lines, tell me what do you see?..a rap cat workin hard in 2003, bein all that ima be.. just aint enough im grabbin all that i see/ cuz im so money hungry now that im starvin to eat/ i make beats, from my seat every day of the week/ im tryin to make people tap theyre fuckin feet on the concrete.. thats basically it, besides that my minds on stackin these chips/ and on my briefcase.. is a buncha burned discs fulla sound clips/ that i distribute thru the underground and represent my town-with/ makin a name.. stakin my claim, aint no mistakin im awake and see you fakin-the-game/ and i was achin-in-pain, ready to provide you with a fuckin shank cuz im insane-in-the-brain/ i got that instrumania like i was takin-the-train.. i never shake in the lane, im out to take-my-acclaim/ me and george bush bout to be makin-the-same, and thats a shame.. but i can hande it, ill do whatever it takes to keep my fuckin candle-lit/even if its scandolous.. i aint above it, and secretly admit that i love it.. but all i wanna do is make platinum-hits/and all white lac with 16 switches, gold spokes, and the gold plated kit, and maybe some acknowledgement/ thats all i really need to make my life complete.. a nine to five and on the side be sellin hella beats/ enjoyin life at full speed without greed or any felonies, rewritin history if we blow up it aint a mystery, we drop bangin tracks consistently//
yup yup..
up untill the sunrise, im workin on these rhymes.. anotha day another dollar, im competin for mine/ ask you to read between the lines, tell me what do you see?..a rap cat workin hard in 2003, bein all that ima be.. just aint enough im grabbin all that i see/ cuz im so money hungry now that im starvin to eat/ i make beats, from my seat every day of the week/ im tryin to make people tap theyre fuckin feet on the concrete.. thats basically it, besides that my minds on stackin these chips/ and on my briefcase.. is a buncha burned discs fulla sound clips/ that i distribute thru the underground and represent my town-with/ makin a name.. stakin my claim, aint no mistakin im awake and see you fakin-the-game/ and i was achin-in-pain, ready to provide you with a fuckin shank cuz im insane-in-the-brain/ i got that instrumania like i was takin-the-train.. i never shake in the lane, im out to take-my-acclaim/ me and george bush bout to be makin-the-same, and thats a shame.. but i can hande it, ill do whatever it takes to keep my fuckin candle-lit/even if its scandolous.. i aint above it, and secretly admit that i love it.. but all i wanna do is make platinum-hits/and all white lac with 16 switches, gold spokes, and the gold plated kit, and maybe some acknowledgement/ thats all i really need to make my life complete.. a nine to five and on the side be sellin hella beats/ enjoyin life at full speed without greed or any felonies, rewritin history if we blow up it aint a mystery, we drop bangin tracks consistently//
yup yup..
