The fact of the matter is
She ain't gotta be the baddest b**h, or live the glamorest life
She just gotta be the type I'd be ready to wife
Who can deal with the fact that I carry the mic
And I carry it like, my life depended on it
It keep me fresh and keep me gettin blunted
Food on the plate and within the stomach
And if she want it I can get it for her
As the bottle pop and henny pours
Me engrained up in her memory core
She send forget me not texts
I'm cool with hanging if it's not s**
Now tell me what's next...
I seldom get vexed when she come out
If I'm clownin round she stick her tongue out
Most of our communication's non-verbal
We keep a tight circle
It be them rumours comin round to hurt you
I work hard I know I deserve you, but never take for granted
What we have is god ordained and reprimanded...
D'ecent...