Voices (Rough)

They say you, Conquer your city you can conquer them all
But they Don’t know my city everybody think they raw
There’s a few gems, but the point is the city small
Our scene aint got no laws
The wild west, in the east
Over beats
I sling Like Doc
I’m your huckleberry if you want to trade bars
Beware it’s gon get Dirty Harry
I used to be timid, this road made a man out me
I used to mouse around but now I master Splinter niggas!
They Holla You aint shit
You aint got hits
You’re too different
You need the jams to make em dance, and chant
Fuck Bitches get money
Fuck Bitches Get Money
Damn...
They Holla You aint shit
You aint got hits
You’re too different
You need the jams to make em dance, and chant
Fuck Bitches get money
Fuck Bitches Get Money
That's what they want me to say?
No team Just a nigga with a Macbook
No team Kenny P recording Memoirs
In my room with a bowl and a Moe groove
Voices hitting my celly saying you can’t lose
Other voices asking “yo where the radio tracks?”
I face palm, smack, cuz I’m past that
I’m guessing that I make trap...
Cuz I’m trapped, biased to my own path
Pour my soul up on a track to have em ask “How you gon sell that?”
They Holla You aint shit
You aint got hits
You’re too different
You need the jams to make em dance, and chant
Fuck Bitches get money
Fuck Bitches Get Money
Damn...
They Holla You aint shit
You aint got hits
You’re too different
You need the jams to make em dance, and chant
Fuck Bitches get money
Fuck Bitches Get Money
That's what they want me to say?
Voices in my ear, telling me the tracks dope
But there’s always a but
Like "your lyrics are tuff
But it’s punchlines I want"
"How old are you?"
"Give it up!"
"Enroll your ass in school"
"There’s more to life than Pads, pens, grooves"
But these voices don’t see my soul
So I learned they get no control
Years of writing just to ease my woes
If it wasn’t for this music shit between you and I
I would’ve probably died years ago!