Letter To My Son's

Ah, ah
Ah

If I fell with the nine, you'd be dancing bachata
If you were from the hood, you'd be my maid (my maid)
I swear, no one would hear you
If the other cockroach didn't back you up

Here, no one believes your gangsta' movie
You and I know each other, and you haven't run from anything (nothing)
And when you drop bars for me
It's clear you're hurting inside

Of course, you're not a driller (nah)
And definitely not a killer (nah)
Ask around, bro, in the hood
I'm the local drug dealer

While you're out there hating
I'm still counting thousands
In this, you're my son
Even if you can't accept it

I never get tired of counting cash
Few are around when I've been at zero (zero)
Everything I've lived through
Has made me tough like steel (like steel)

Tough like steel
Family always comes first
And I'm sorry for not loving you
The same way I love money (nah, nah)

Says he’s got a hammer on his waist
You’ll need something more if I catch you in the street
Your sister’s a whore
A couple of guys from London have already hit that

Even your buddies are hitting on your sister
I get why you’re feeling a bit stressed (tchu)
That talking and singing lies
You’re really good at it
I get you wanna be like me
But in this drill game, I’m something special

Can never be trippin' over a bitch (nah, nah)
Right now, I’m not into women
Money on my mind, yeah, I’m tryna get rich
A hundred percent, money over a bitch

Calls himself Yu—, and doesn’t want beef, he’s a vegetarian
You got hit in Barcelona, and all you did was move, bro
Zowi left you for a junkie and a loser
You’ve been rapping, cousin, for over 10 years
And your mouth, cousin, is full of grime

Of course, you're not a driller (nah)
And definitely not a killer (nah)
Ask around, bro, in the hood
I'm the local drug dealer

While you're out there hating
I'm still counting thousands
In this, you're my son
Even if you can't accept it

(Of course, you're not a driller)
(And definitely not a killer)
(Of course, you're not a driller)
(And definitely not a killer)