A hot day in August, 1991
Me and MJ walkin', talkin' in the hot sun
OTS was home then, listen to the lyrics
Me and MJ made the shit
101 played the shit
Sellin' tapes straight from my hand to your hand
Pump didn't give us none
So we had to take them
Make him respect a nigga, check the nigga constantly
Busta, where my cheese at?
Before I have to get the gat
Every record store and stereo supply shop
Sellin' me, but I'm not collectin' a salary
What else to do except say fuck this whole rap shit
Find a hustle in the streets and try to flip shit
All in the next nigga hood slangin' packs on the bus
People askin' me, "Mane, don't you rap?"
No shame, had to get to A to B to make the C-H-Double-E-S-E
Comin' up

1992, stackin' dues, not royalties
Cause we was told they was used for utilities
Not one single dime, not one check
And we was here from the whole business aspect
A lot of fame came with some decent record sales
But at the same time, we was catchin' plenty hell
Cause we could tell that the record deal was goin' sour
But over everything we did, he had full power
With no money in my hands, only fans
Stayin' true, takin' stance helped me to pursue my fans
Pen and paper
I kept keepin'
Reefer chiefin'
Beepers wasn't beepin'
Money we was needin'
Me and 'Ball constantly havin' arguments with our manager
Tryin' to damage a
Good career, fool, is amateur
Damn it's a, cryin' shame
To take too much
8Ball