“What Ya Gonna Do?"
Lyrics by KZ (@KZ4RealTho)
“I exercise my vocab just for laughs; I’ll murder ANYONE in two paragraphs.”
([email protected])
Lyrics by KZ (@KZ4RealTho)
“I exercise my vocab just for laughs; I’ll murder ANYONE in two paragraphs.”
([email protected])
What ya gonna do
When you’re out of pills to swallow?
What ya gonna do,
Cause you ain’t got one for tomorrow.
Spend you’re time on Twitter
Tryin to get the world to follow;
Afraid to face society,
Go out with pockets full of hollows.
KZ got tight flows;
Flying higher than the Wright Bros.
I might go psycho,
For tonight is the night, bro.
Gonna get me a bottle;
Spend a few dollars on lotto.
Then go down to the mall,
Window-shop me a Movado.
A Perpetual Rolex,
Never know what’s gonna come next.
I sold the extra K’s and Tecs,
But kept the Glock to self-protect.
Like it did inside the workplace,
Them boys came in to rob the place,
I got pissed off,
And let off five at his masked face.
He survived the encounter;
Fell off over the counter,
Spinal trauma pissing blood,
Like the pharmacy had a bouncer.
They tried taking I tried givin;
They got picked up and sent to prison.
I been through some shit man;
I’m using that to make a living.
I write and draw all the time,
For ten years I’ve spit local rhymes.
Got inventions on the shelf, and
Finished books; all in due time.
I’ve found myself an agent,
I seek legal representation,
Got to learn what I can say,
What’s self-incrimination.
Three Generations Deep in the Dope Game;
That whole era was a damn shame.
The Source got cheap;
Refused to pay come deadline day.
So I kept the article,
Showed them the middle cuticle,
Sorry there, Amy,
I don’t mean to get rude with you.
I wanted no hard feelings,
Complimented you on Linkedin,
Grab your Blackberry,
Give me a topic, let it sink in.
I’ll spin some written gold up,
To fill your centerfold up,
We’ll sell a mil and sign a deal,
So both our pockets swoll up.
But now The Source is past-time,
And now I fucks with Cosign;
KG and staff are friends of mine;
They appreciate these words of mine.
I’ve made King Art for T.I;
Been doing art since knee-high.
Ever since the shooting,
I’ve been doing it like full-time.
Tip should lend me his crown,
I wrote when he was locked down.
A four-page legal pad,
Illustrated lookin’ bad!
Sent my memories of Atlanta,
Encased my thoughts in good grammar.
Added kings and queens and jacks,
To pass his time inside the slammer.
I showed support,
While shopping my portfolio,
Tip passed on me,
So onward I go.
And even after all that,
I call the shit the aftermath,
When jogging on the Towpath,
I expect another blood bath.
I keep the heat with me,
In case they’re coming back to get me,
I still can’t get right,
Shrinks called it P.T.S.D.
It’s social anxiety,
And Xanax makes me tired, G.
I’m better off to blow the trees,
To calm my nerves alone, B.
And only I can keep me safe,
No cop, or judge, or man of faith,
I made the public’s case,
For concealed carry in a public place.
I’d trade my life for yours
Just to make a point.
Strong-arm your bag of weed;
Roll myself a joint.
I never up and leave
When someone starts a fight.
Pull the tool and pay em back
For they not acting right.
In Monday’s mail I got a kite;
Said FDLE might indict.
Sit and stress my situation
With a Marlboro Menthol Light…
What ya gonna do
When you realize that you can’t find a job?
The rent is two months overdue,
So now you got a major prob.
Stressed beyond belief,
Feel like your bill collectors were the mob.
You light a blunt, put on a song,
Let 50 teach you How to Rob.
Sometimes a jack move goes too far;
Gotta bury the guns and burn the car.
Should have listened to your Nana more,
Tried to tell your young ass life was hard.
It’s the natural evolution,
Armed kids conducting revolution,
Prefer to live life in seclusion,
Need a fly crib out in Houston.
What ya gonna do
When your every day is civil war?
Start your days without a car,
and knowing you ain’t going far.
When life is feelin hard
And you done smoked your last hand-rolled cigar.
You hate yourself inside
While spending change and days down at the bar.
What ya gonna do
When Post Traumatic makes you stay at home?
You won’t answer your phone,
And you prefer to spend your life alone.
Keep your boss’ gun at home,
In case you wanna blast your dome.
Society bets you’ll do it,
But you refuse to stain your own chrome.
Privatized the weed game,
The grams and dubs all helped sustain,
My customers drove me insane.
I’ve done my best now to refrain.
From selling it but not from smoking,
You know KZ’s forever toking.
Quit Swishers while they legalize,
Man, you must be fucking joking.
Go to jail for half a cigarette?
The police haven’t caught me yet.
The only reason they’re in charge,
Is we didn’t overthrow them yet.
I do my best to smoke good,
Blueberry in my neighborhood.
I roll it, light it, hit it, hold it,
Nasal exhale smellin good.
The world can be a cold place,
Sometimes you wanna hide your face.
Life-or-death victory has a nice taste,
Still searching for her warm embrace.
(#RealestShitIEverWrote -KZ)
When you’re out of pills to swallow?
What ya gonna do,
Cause you ain’t got one for tomorrow.
Spend you’re time on Twitter
Tryin to get the world to follow;
Afraid to face society,
Go out with pockets full of hollows.
KZ got tight flows;
Flying higher than the Wright Bros.
I might go psycho,
For tonight is the night, bro.
Gonna get me a bottle;
Spend a few dollars on lotto.
Then go down to the mall,
Window-shop me a Movado.
A Perpetual Rolex,
Never know what’s gonna come next.
I sold the extra K’s and Tecs,
But kept the Glock to self-protect.
Like it did inside the workplace,
Them boys came in to rob the place,
I got pissed off,
And let off five at his masked face.
He survived the encounter;
Fell off over the counter,
Spinal trauma pissing blood,
Like the pharmacy had a bouncer.
They tried taking I tried givin;
They got picked up and sent to prison.
I been through some shit man;
I’m using that to make a living.
I write and draw all the time,
For ten years I’ve spit local rhymes.
Got inventions on the shelf, and
Finished books; all in due time.
I’ve found myself an agent,
I seek legal representation,
Got to learn what I can say,
What’s self-incrimination.
Three Generations Deep in the Dope Game;
That whole era was a damn shame.
The Source got cheap;
Refused to pay come deadline day.
So I kept the article,
Showed them the middle cuticle,
Sorry there, Amy,
I don’t mean to get rude with you.
I wanted no hard feelings,
Complimented you on Linkedin,
Grab your Blackberry,
Give me a topic, let it sink in.
I’ll spin some written gold up,
To fill your centerfold up,
We’ll sell a mil and sign a deal,
So both our pockets swoll up.
But now The Source is past-time,
And now I fucks with Cosign;
KG and staff are friends of mine;
They appreciate these words of mine.
I’ve made King Art for T.I;
Been doing art since knee-high.
Ever since the shooting,
I’ve been doing it like full-time.
Tip should lend me his crown,
I wrote when he was locked down.
A four-page legal pad,
Illustrated lookin’ bad!
Sent my memories of Atlanta,
Encased my thoughts in good grammar.
Added kings and queens and jacks,
To pass his time inside the slammer.
I showed support,
While shopping my portfolio,
Tip passed on me,
So onward I go.
And even after all that,
I call the shit the aftermath,
When jogging on the Towpath,
I expect another blood bath.
I keep the heat with me,
In case they’re coming back to get me,
I still can’t get right,
Shrinks called it P.T.S.D.
It’s social anxiety,
And Xanax makes me tired, G.
I’m better off to blow the trees,
To calm my nerves alone, B.
And only I can keep me safe,
No cop, or judge, or man of faith,
I made the public’s case,
For concealed carry in a public place.
I’d trade my life for yours
Just to make a point.
Strong-arm your bag of weed;
Roll myself a joint.
I never up and leave
When someone starts a fight.
Pull the tool and pay em back
For they not acting right.
In Monday’s mail I got a kite;
Said FDLE might indict.
Sit and stress my situation
With a Marlboro Menthol Light…
What ya gonna do
When you realize that you can’t find a job?
The rent is two months overdue,
So now you got a major prob.
Stressed beyond belief,
Feel like your bill collectors were the mob.
You light a blunt, put on a song,
Let 50 teach you How to Rob.
Sometimes a jack move goes too far;
Gotta bury the guns and burn the car.
Should have listened to your Nana more,
Tried to tell your young ass life was hard.
It’s the natural evolution,
Armed kids conducting revolution,
Prefer to live life in seclusion,
Need a fly crib out in Houston.
What ya gonna do
When your every day is civil war?
Start your days without a car,
and knowing you ain’t going far.
When life is feelin hard
And you done smoked your last hand-rolled cigar.
You hate yourself inside
While spending change and days down at the bar.
What ya gonna do
When Post Traumatic makes you stay at home?
You won’t answer your phone,
And you prefer to spend your life alone.
Keep your boss’ gun at home,
In case you wanna blast your dome.
Society bets you’ll do it,
But you refuse to stain your own chrome.
Privatized the weed game,
The grams and dubs all helped sustain,
My customers drove me insane.
I’ve done my best now to refrain.
From selling it but not from smoking,
You know KZ’s forever toking.
Quit Swishers while they legalize,
Man, you must be fucking joking.
Go to jail for half a cigarette?
The police haven’t caught me yet.
The only reason they’re in charge,
Is we didn’t overthrow them yet.
I do my best to smoke good,
Blueberry in my neighborhood.
I roll it, light it, hit it, hold it,
Nasal exhale smellin good.
The world can be a cold place,
Sometimes you wanna hide your face.
Life-or-death victory has a nice taste,
Still searching for her warm embrace.
(#RealestShitIEverWrote -KZ)
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