Tired

Niggas is sayin' that rappin' is dead Guess that I'm not on the back of they heads They would've loved me in corporate America I went and did rappin' instead Shit it'd be nice to be stackin' my bread A good-paying job, kick up the legs Live for the weekend, get my rest I guess I did both, no presh I'm back on the strip, I'm back in the ends I'm back on the Jackie with all of my friends Back up your drive, shit outta hand Could go any day, don't try to pretend Rap too militant, too belligerent Who's this immigrant son with the penmanship? Get up on the mic and take your membership for your benefit At the end of it, no new friends, but still no nemesis Jacques spread love and they all gon' remember it Come on, come on, come on, come on Come on, come on They ask what I need Is it that bread or the 80 degrees? Weather where light peeks through the trees? Nah it's the booth, this shit a breeze They thought that I quit and they felt to they knees "He wear a suit, no it can't be!" "He way too frosted to work in the office!" And shit, I'd have to agree What did I do with my fuckin' degrees? Showed them that everything ain't what it seems Flyin' by the fuckin' seat of my pants Not gonna land and I'm not sayin' please Spellin' it out for the niggas in doubt I just need focus, I'm somethin' to see From east to the west, Florida Keys This ain't over till we play overseas Come on, come on, come on Come on, come on Come on, come on, come on Come on, come on (Come on, come on)