Junior High (Ft. Evidence, Your Old Droog)

[Ché Noir]
I always spit to tell you facts
In junior high I went to school with kids who sell you crack
Was ridiculed by my peers, they whisper pointing while they laugh
The 7th grade, I had a pistol pointed at my back
Back then I was a cursed teen with a bruised fist
My only best friend was 13 with two kids
The flower child my mothers worst seed that grew big
In Sunday school I watched my church sing with loose lips
Road rage on this road to riches to go to school
Cause sharpened pencils is how I show niggas my point of view
Never avoid the truth hungry for the success but inside of this bin is only the greed can enjoy the food
League of my own, I don’t compete with these cats
Cause you niggas trash, I rather hear your beats than your raps
Took a ego trip and my cloth, the only thing that I pack
Flew to a private island for a week to relax
For real

[Evidence]
Didn’t have to sell a dream
A junior high in school with kids that’s getting cream
Scrutinized for my moves, watching plotting on the team
Before a digital scale was rocking in the beam
I failed at first but found my balance sprinting last place
Marathon runners don’t come up at a fast pace
Found my talent, head up in the clouds hands
Faith is evidence, I’m truth to the foul plays
For the record, put the madness to the method
Digging in the crates found the fragments of the wreckage
I just loop it, hard to say I haven’t been invested
Going back in time before I hadn’t been arrested
In the public, if I rocked a chain I wouldn’t tuck it
Going back to Cali still rocking the bucket
Fuck the fuck shit, knock the cord out my [?]
Confrontation came up to change the subject

[Your Old Droog]
These ain’t rhymes, I’m just speaking the facts
A Jewish kid who hung with Puerto Ricans and Blacks
For years my only white friends would be all shifty
You picked on me so long I thought something was wrong with me
I used to write a song and wonder who gon’ get me
Is it too good, will I be misunderstood
Now the whole world overstand my vocals
A hero to all the weirdos and the antisocials
Check it
They signed up for the program
Never had a prom with a chick to grind up to and slow dance
These naysayers got no chance
And you don’t know pain ‘til you get lines up by your own mans
Get frigid weather over minuscule digits
Walk through the hood and you don’t even know who did it
Today my pockets fatter than the hands on a midget
I’m smart cause I rely on my heart not analytics