Messages Matter

[Verse 1]
When I spit, the words they glisten
Cause where I’m from, all the birds say Listen
Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?
I don’t respond to emoticons or emotions, what a notion
That your brainpan should do the locomotion
And keypad a novel that coulda been just spoken
My friends do this, they peg me with one-ways
"I got your message late, I was still in the subway"
And people, they don’t laugh anymore, they use acronyms
To make their opinions known
This is why I might stay home for the next couple weeks
And retreat to my form of beats, rhymes and life
I flip like the phone every single fucking night
Jen Kenny, stop pushing those buttons all the time
I used to be a baller, now I bring in my C-game
Cause I know that my song is her screen name

[Verse 2]
Now girls love to be photographed
This is a fact that can’t be contested by the constraints of feminism in society
It’s not that far from how everyone’s a DJ
And how every single party is destined to be great
My bulletin board is on the baller block
Not the chopper, stop her from calling that holler talk
To the dude with the nautical tattoos
You know, played out outside, played out inside
Stay out in nights of passion with streets of rage
Whisper in my ear about the beats on stage
And don’t blow me off like a dandelion, Mandy tried to
Tell me that this DJ crew was incredibly, you know, hyphy
I don’t really get what that means in the context
But either way, let’s associate songs with sex
And talk to me dirty like Russell, hustle ‘til my death date
You make me wanna tussle with a bedframe

[Verse 3]
Mic checka, style’s forward like Mike Peca
Right ripped, tight lipped with high sticks up
I met a girl in the States I wanted to pick up
So I’m like "Baby, let me be your glowing puck?"
And she says "what the fuck", but in terms of abbreviation
That’s when I say my cell phone bill is a mess, hahaha
But I get past stress through a keyboard press
And meet girls on the internet that wanna get blessed
Well, I met one the other day, and she was too hood to be true
She was too good to be new, goods
So I ran her through the scanner of my choice
I held her like a banner for my boys
I think she checks out like the Betty Ford, heady whores
Mettle with my treble ‘till the bass is off the boards
I face her at her core, a matron of the store
Debase my space with grace, it’s just the pace that I abhor