Add-2 - Chicago Blues | Текст песни

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• Chicago Blues

I know the stormy weather, better than Lena Horne

weather it, chasing cheddar to split up like shedders, whether its gone,

they gotta jack it like athlete with his letterman on

I’m writing late night like when David Letterman’s on

Pain embeded in rhythm,

slave struggle extending from cotton picking, crack hitting and stacked prisons

that black wisdom and soul music we use to turn it up

tight like the plastic on my grandmothers funiture

she use tell me, smile baby know that you blessed

play your part and trust that God gon handle the rest, and get some rest

but I cant, cause im stressed,

dreaming of success, and aint accepting nothing less

steaks is high, dealing with snakes and fake friends with foul motives

still in the hood like old whips wit loud motors,

they on the flow like where smokers putting the hotel towel over

faces like its embracing a foul odor…

…fuck it its rhyme torture

hit em like shots from 40 cals or an open kyle korver

I’m elevating while they hating

rhyming finer than wine laying next to naked sanaa lathan

boy meets world and life was my Mr. Feeny

my life an open book but these niggas cant read me

Add-2 the heir/air but these niggas cant breathe me

Wesley snipes in a black out these niggas cant see me









so out this world my mind just past mars

my mother pray her son wont crash like past stars

get a buzz, drunk off fame, stuck on my last bar

on the otherside find what life means like flashcards

heart still race, when I stay out late

so when I’m eyeing a full plate I remember to say grace

lucky like the number 7

but if you die in your prime then you live on as a legend

damn…what a hell of a choice,

feeling mellow listening Ella Fitzgerald’s hell of voice

*summertime, round midnight*

in the summertime round midnight, ironic like alanis morrisette

if it wasnt for these records I’d be out living reckless

even if you aint a fan, real niggas still respect it

they be looking for my name like its written on a guestlist

my worst songs still sound better than your best shit

I’m still here to the fear in you niggas

stick to the script but that shit dont adhere to you niggas

I appear so skilled it aint fair to niggas

felicia rashad flow its still Claire/clear to you niggas

my homies would throw up the rakes back when we was in school

3 fingers high like they was missing the other 2

elders speaking to the wind ‘whats the world coming to’

…I shake my head thinking if you only knew…

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