this is for the quarter water
broke and freezing with a heater and a ring
came from the slime at the bottom of the land before time
from the chalk dust falling out the pocket
the time james died on good times
the time lapse to the sunrise on the arctic
shit from the vomit of the bowel with no solid
sleeping bag on the street
by the row where they fight over french fries
where they choke for peso
bitch this from that c-section
from the bloody afterbirth of the greed
blood streaks on the back of a hearse
everybody holler at the first thing
real g shit means don't say nothin'
ain't that just bout a bitch?
for the hole gnawed by the root
taking on a chimp for the freaks
yeah i'm fucking your bitch
the hard facade over the hard heart
the fuck is basquiat? park name
the dogs let out to walk and the gods all talk gibberish
littlest pup figure he bigger enough
to scrap for the meat with a rott'
eat in the streets 'till it rot
fecal for free and the steeple don't mean nothing
so everybody's sunday best when you see him coming
pastor always talking about sisters and brothers
slanging on the church steps
real g shit means don't say nothing
ain't that just bout a bitch?
for the city that's going wild
and drowning without poseidon
and flying their flags for tyrants
and vibing out on the violence
with vitamin water sighing
and crying bout the profiling
bout the vanity with all the blinds drawn
looking out for the shooters
the pious don't know the truth
or the bias they pointing to
and the fire that they pursuing
is higher than those with eyes
that is redder than jeans are blue
higher than a motherfucker about to go ape
real g shit means don't say nothing
ain't that just bout a bitch?