Just ink plus pad,
Blessed by my old dad;
Gifted to present Eric B. the president;
From microphone fiends
To master of ceremonies;
Mahogany trees in our ghetto streets;
The 18th letter (‘R'),
Phat ropes and better;
Platinum and Leather;
Turntables,
Mics,
And cords;
Vocally cord without sweat inside my hand;
But I dig deeper,
Still coming up with lead;
No ink to scribe,
No pad to vibe;
So no cash to buy rims to spin;
Eric B. and me no longer friends;
And without the money its still a wish;
So I walk up the strip,
Whistle and spit;
Cause without the c.r.e.a.m,
Fish is my only dish;
So all that I do is dream
About getting paid;
Stomach hungry,
But I still got pull…
I won't stop till I'm paid ‘N' full…