Double barrel glocks,
Under a pillow where he dreams of another shot…
All over his mind from the minute that he wakes,
To the minute that he drops…
Number one gangsta’ on his block!
A top notch learning curve for pitching a rock.
Dealing a heavy stock of Death for a fiend dying to cop,
For something other than,
Isn’t that kind of wicked?
How he couldn’t be happy without a finger itching to pull a trigger?
Grinning in front of large figures,
Frowning in front of far bigger!
Numbers He’s willing to kill and die!
Murdering every time for More.
Sickening how he’s down for whores.
A million dollars on the floor.
Surrounded and trapped by a course,
Only the beast can dine in…
Mr Murda Mo’.
What does that make him?
Embracing the faceless,
Saving up cases,
Of money another is hunting and gunning down punks for their own chance to make it?
Mr. Murda Mo’,
How will He die?
Is the question.
Will he survive?
Is the quest in,
The mind of a wannabe-boss looking for O’s they couldn’t find in their Exes.
Nor the circles they have binded with a single message…
“Fuck with my money?
And I’ll pull my Double Glock out,
And leave a motha’ fucka’ breathless!”