Once upon a time there was a brotha named Kastro
Had a little problem with his cash flow
More than once his friend'd tell me he had a dream to clock mad dough
Only at the time it seem that absurd
Then he saw a light bulb flash up in his forehead
Shine so bright he had to close both eyes
Said whoever hit him for the average poor asshole
'Bout to be hit for they biggest surprise
Now meanwhile, still short on pot to piss in
Not to mention any window to throw it out
Lookin like who don't you want and where it come from
Sippin on chicken wing, smackin on stout
Step to his boys, the label of the month
Like 'yo, what's the haps kid, let me get a deal'
Got a dope style, sound just like so and so
What's her name, runnin from ya, even more ill
Make ya wanna holler like Marvin, did I mention I'm starvin and quite thirst
Meanin what, meanin that I'm a do whatever it take to make sure they play my shit first
On the Billboard and last on the countdown, like contact on that show
So what's up black, yo, how that sound?
If you down then c'mon let's go
Down to the studio right now, bring me that crate with the old hits
Make that beat with the right style, so that brotha wanna go get
In that club with the DJ, he be on the radio all day
I get in cool with him even though he fake as a toupee
I roll with ballers and thugs to make my image legit
Even though back in the day they told me "you ain't shit"
I'm at the Cinderella ball, now it just don't quit
Eh, Fuck that, I shrink my feet if the shoe don't fit
I make it happen like hormones, you been forewarned
I got you mad now cause I'm kickin that popcorn
It blows up in a couple minutes
Expand the pockets so your girl's hand's all in it
I see ya shorty starin at me on the guest line
But these four backstage'll do me just fine
Or five, that's for my jam on the request line
So if you stress me I could tell you through the grapevine

Yo, I'm number one, but the bullet can't hack it now
The Billboard need a full metal jacket now
You see my face all day 'til it make you sick
I got a hand full of cards, you can take your pick
Now who'd a thought this bullshit song'd have me seen
And every video and every other magazine
With more attention than a jet black drag queen
At a convention with a Grand Dragon Klans meetin
Kids hang on every word I say like a damn fiend
It's too bad it don't stand for a damn thing
They parents say I'm too nasty for they damn teen
But I ain't write it so don't ask me what the fuck it mean
I got some other shit to worry 'bout instead
The more money, more problems like the man said
Ain't like my phone is bein tapped by the damn FEDs
But my accountant said I can't get out the damn red
I heard that people gettin tired of my song now
The album drops and now my fans are gettin hostile
I only had one song that got the style right
The guy who wrote it, yo, his album dropped last night
My pockets on Slim Fast and Jenny Craig
The same clubs and restaraunts that kept me well fed
Reject my credit like a Muslim do a boar's head
Good thing my boss is my boy so I ain't gotta beg
But now he hollerin at me like 'yo, where the loot went?'
We had to clear the damn sample when the loop went
We comin up type short like an indent
And I just learned a new word called recoupment
I got paid for the video equipment
And every other detail a red cent spent
Oh hell nah, don't talk about no fuckin fine print
Well tell me this, how the hell I'm gonna pay the rent
I got a live-in landlord so now I tiptoe
In and out the crib to find a way to get dough
Can't make another record cause I can't flow
But I could tell you a little story
And that shit go


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I don't like the beat anymore because its just a loop. ALC didn't FLIP IT ENOUGH!

Flip it enough? Flip these. Flip off. Go flip some f*cking burgers.(c)Kno

Allied State of the National Electric Beat Treaty Organization (NEBTO)