Print

Each morning, my man goes downtownWhere everyone falls, and he's lostIn an angry land, he's a little manFeeling like it's Groundhog Day, he gotta try againRiptide tide with thoughts of retiringPride flies and he wired me some truth and inspirementHe gets the mail and he's offLike a movie trailer with those long roads and it costsI wish you could retain the way he's losing his patienceFucking transit, travel constantly, the fame motivationCheck cashing day, knowing my face on the spotThe bank teller should embrace him when he talks in slotsAnd not a day of rest, he walks twenty blocksAnd brings me what the villain's gotA little money, little presents I could kill 'em rockReady stalking with them, having dark visions of choking[censored]And fuck [censored], but of course it's his jobAnd he can't understand why I worry so muchBecause he's my man, damnHe's busting his ass like figure skaters fallingDiscussing the past label problems, [censored] calling himIt's my drama he's falling in; my momma, she stalling himHe's running out the door and she's saying, "Go to thestore," and thenHe's rushing out on no foodLetras de cancionesI feel him getting close to postalGetting robbed by a nigga for ProToolsAnd he won't tell me about [censored] in TennesseeI swear that nigga's dead -- I could picture the funeral, BHollering like soon he'll be picking jewelryI be like, if I was you, I'd be excluding meHe won't go; he smokes, though, just to get byThey fuck up his high with phone callsI swear to God, I wish he'd snapRun up in [censored], stab [censored] in the backAnd flip the table over, take his wallet, kick his throat inAnd leave the knife attached to a note, smokingMan, fuck [censored]and [censored] and [censored]Colin ran around for a month and niggas ain't callingI hate him going to these meetings, trying to explainWhy Jean is the next thing; I fiend for the endingI scream when he's leaving, man, I hate themHe doesn't write no more; drawings, he doesn't make themPause, we the relation; calls heeded, forsakenAll Colin's creative; Lord, how does he make it?Naw, I couldn't, maybe, cause Jean's not as good atBottling up feelings, feeling all positive when I shouldn'tI'm going with him, bringing some basement to itIn the ass, find a nice place to place my foot inBut he paces my footing, tries to place the good inKeeps the paper chase going, no complaintsWhy shouldn't I worry that what good am I?Damn, I'll love the man til I die, c'mon From Letras Mania