Zulu Tolstoy

Wrote a story about a rapper writing a story
Rap about his shorty, tryna rap his way up out the trap
Plenty hoes, gats, run-of-the-mill, but flow ill, Voice old cognac
He'd say, "No homo" if this was his track
So I'm writing about him, writing about him, writing about that
Felt it fell flat, took a break, but he kept going like "Sorry, B, I got an album to rap"

Two decent 16s, chorus cooked crack
Ended up not using it, not like it was wack
Just something off with the hats
Producer caught feelings, took the beat back
Tape bricked bad, he quit, mad

Meanwhile, shorty from his song still rapping, buzzin'
This really might happen, taking meetings in Manhattan
Single has traction, hip-Hop cops tryna catch him packing
Dusty old warrants dug out file cabinets
That's that good hate every time the phone ring
Might could be Drake

Missed South by whitey wouldn't let him out the state
Stayed home at the gate
Wrote a hook on his phone and knew right away it was fucking great

The Good book says that he that lives by the sword, shall perish by the sword
Said the black, what right man would have it any other way?
It makes no difference what men think of war
War endures, as well ask men what they think of stone
War was always here before man was
War waited for him