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imagine my vision,, you start with a blank, sketch in the picture,, you think you a master, think you Davinci,, you tracing the lines, color it different. but that ain't your image,, see that ain't your stylus, that aint your canvas,, aint your design, and that ain't your talent,, snake in the grass, you got a habit. I'm sick of you bastards,, a son of the game, but who is your daddy,, nobody claiming, nobody asking,, the spoon that you fed with silver and plastic. fxck what you after,, you niqqas is fake, the poly is graphing,, sick of you lames, you think you can match it,, what is two cents to someone with cash. take that and bank it,, make a deposit, still overdrafted,, cutting your cards, fxck your transactions,, you get no loans, and you get no passes. the exit is that way..