Fake point, can't annoint; you disappoint, you no CP3 tho
Assists low, gunning persists, can't coexist yo
You ballhog guards played out, freezing your running mates out
Superstar turned flop, it bring the hate out
Forty-nine L's get weighed, it's the only way
To judge stars in the N-B-A, Curry winning in the Bay!
Managing games passe, chuck from deep range, losses out the ass, mate!
No free passes Ky, miss playoffs get fried
Too many shots, waved off screens, thirty-two games won
Eleven less than Washington
A long ways away from a ring
Yo, let me let y'all ballhogs know one thing
There's one ball, one team, so the point can't be scoring king
The lowlights of losing, selfish-style, no pass all shooting
Cavs .500 when 'Rie sitting em, empty statlines, u gettin' em
Reluctant passes you sending em, 'cause 18 shots the minimum
Play out the string with no adrenaline, loafing around chillin'
A case of no playoffs to chase, but shots plenty
Upset any clique, with the overdribbling who want it?
Tight handle, you flaunt it, dumb fans flock - you lace 'em
Crossover to nowhere, still in place, between the legs
Team out of formation standing, watching is how you have em
Former fans jumping off the bandwagon
Elimated, play with no passion, just dragging
Grab the rock it's on though
Shit is grimy, real gunners chuck and don't play right
With the broke J, that don't spray right
Don't give a fuck if you win as long as the board's lit
Yo, capable teammates bug cause they ain't getting shit
Chucking-ass Australian, stay on that gunner-shit


You never pass, unless it's the only option left
You ain't the type of brother made to start passing!