I've been getting some incredible letters from Incandesio, with lots of great questions, and many powerful comments that you guys been posting. Right now, I'm up to my head in preparing the promotional plan for The S.O.N., the artwork, the CD insert info, the last minute changes on the album, and all kinds of stuff that concerns The S.O.N. But I just wanted to drop you guys a quick Cold 40. I dedicate it to the little homie who, unfortunately, was taking up for the fraud shit Filero said.
In fact, I dedicate this to every hater on the planet. Like T.I. said, "Stay on your job." It's nothing but love on this side, even when I gotta dress you boys up a bit. I hope one day you'll realize that I would never lie on a man, never call someone a liar unless I know he's lying. Everything I said on my response to Filero's interview, was the simple truth. One of Filero's homies, or groupies, or dicksuckers got mad about my response, but what can I tell you, little brother? You're on the wrong side. Now, it's time for the best in the world to dress you up. Consider it an honor.
Another Cold 40
"Houston is torn"
You talk like a killa but I heard it before
get that broom and a mop, bitch, murda the floor,
jumpin on the net like you really about shit
but work fryin fish in a Gilligan's outfit
Slap you on da ass like you work at The Ritz
Have you walkin round the house dry sperm on ya lips
What kind of person is this, with no respect for ya team?
He da boy S.P., he da Mexican King!
if you step in the ring, let'cha plans be abandoned
just act like you here to sing the National Anthem
cause even if you look like you think that you ready
you gettin fucked like you in the backseat of my Chevy
goofy-ass punk, tell the label you rep
they can suck my right nut while they cradle the left
in the Webster's Dictionary under "broke-ass bustaz"
there's a picture of ya crew buyin no-brand mustard
but hold up, fellas, not to question ya hustle
cause ya'll mothafuckas representin the struggle
been 20-plus years that ya songs don't sell
got-damn, son, they hiring at Taco Bell!
nigga put it on my life that the Dope House lives
yellin "Fuck the radio!" this ain't Mo-town bitch
I neva asked to be the greatest, nigga, look what it costed
got pain like a man who wrote a book'n'then lost it
my babies growin up behind a scratched up window
so haters gotta pay me either cash or a dick blow
damn, it's sick bro, the dopest alive
on dat August twenty-first real hope has arrived
you'll hear it on each song, high at my street prom
nigga so hot I hold my dick widda meat tong
weed in my weed bong, deep in a deep thought
I wreck niggaz now dem hoes callin me 3-Pac
mix it with Frank White and gimme till daylight
wishin I could hear Screw keepin the pace right
yeah, but it ain't like, a genie is real
cause I had a 3rd wish still my people was killed
see the evil's instilled in every human that's born
like North against South, even Houston is torn
but if I mention God niggaz switchin the station
well, fuck it then, I'mma save the crickets from Satan.....
Ya'll don't feel me, man.
Ya'll don't feel me, man.