I bust these guns for my loved ones and kids,
Because they are the only ones,
Who want to see me live,
They say it is better to give,
So recieve three of these up in your ribs.
I speak last and attack first,
It gets worse,
You try to stomp my name,
And I'll show you how this gun burst,
Open your chest, make your heart drop,
I'll have you laying in a hospital cott,
Machines making your heart pump,
I get deep and deadly like the science of wrath,
Screw the world,
I'm burning bridges like Nash,
My hands on a shortie, while my mind is on cash,
Son, I shine like rays,
Forget the plate, I want the whole buffey,
And I take all I want roughly, trust me.
I'll step on your block, all fresh like new,
And when I come through, respects all do,
Shook people hold their breath untill their face is blue.
I'll walk up to you cats like yo,
Your as fake as they come,
Fresh out of the back yard
You'er still sucking your thumb,
Your cutting coke on a plate and smoking the crumbs,
© Copyright 2016 Tyrone Slade. All rights reserved.
Poem / Religion and Spirituality
Poem / Memoir
Poem / Memoir
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