It's not hard to love women, it's hard to love me. Hard to guard me and hard to judge me. They're my audience lately, no LL. Or James Smith, more like Nai-smith. Or Nais-mith. Shit, I exit from knowing the name 'cause I want to spit the best shit. Top baller, top Moorer, top bawler or tears, and I'm a scorer, weird. Cause I'm not used to the sport, not abusing women to do what I do anymore. Not really abusing then, all I know is this game is used to abusing them. And I love them more then they can love themselves and I don't love me. I might make themselves when I touch me 'cause they're love to me. What's ugly? Look at me or look above me

I spit hard to get n***as off. Pause. I mean get 'em off me because they're trying to guard me. Now I spit bars just to get women off. cause they the hard within a n***a when they're trying to guard me. So retardedly I got to be bigger then
Their assumptions of what a n***a with a trigger can do. So who's bigger than dude with the trigger holder who's
Quick to abuse a n***a until his fluid hits his shoes? Such a metaphor is even heavier nowadays. So I let the door close, at least to my heart. And let it piece apart what I want to say before I run away. All the thoughts are now runaway slaves
From the brain, to the heart, to the soul, to the mouth. And it rolls out like a rolling carpet of red. Hard-headed and I'm only hard in bed. And this is a music bed and I'm guarding it instead because a hard offensive member makes a hard office defender. I did this shit from behind my desk. In my mind, insects. I don't guess

Adages makes my rapping average. You can sum it up in a phrase Grandma would say back in the stuck days, the up days when you was trying to figure out what's up with... Fuck it, the subject stays. And I stay away from the subject because I'm not trying to get paid. Like fuck getting paid, throw all this love shit away. If I sat down to write this shit down, I'd be more depressed. I see more than stress coming up. The runner up. #1 is on some other stuff, and I don't give a mother-fuck. I'm the king of Acid Jazz. Acid drips, acid laughs, that's some shit, back to math, back to class, back to making classics. Black classics are now Jamaican classics. Roll up and get pissed, because they completely missed it from a distance. What's the point? You love the point, cause you grew up with the point. And you love the point like Mark Price, like Steve Nash. There's an 'S' in the way, even ask. Even basketball classes need to pass