But really, I'm sick of rapping.
But really, I miss the passion.
You feel me?
I miss the scene.
You feel me?
I miss the action.
I miss touring,
I miss America,
I missed the pageant.
I'm still married to that dame;
The game is Mrs. Jackson to me.

Rappers love talking this epic --
When we talk about our exit from show biz
Though nobody noticed we left it.
Let's head your bets to the School of Texas
Hold 'em Rolexes, some Lexuses,
Just a second, I got a test,
But I'm blessed.

I've got to live and learn.
Literally did a term,
Then went to gig and earn, earn,
Just let it burn
Words like a grow op.
No, I don't mean grow pot.
I mean getting that dope, though,
I've still gotta grow lots,
Live; real stories grow plots.
They wanna mow crops and
Grow guap and find some botox
Robots to co-op,
But y'all know me;
Don't stop!

I just go off,
I stay on point for the heads
That's got some mohawk;
For heads that's headstrong,
And heads with dreads on,
And white corn rolls,
Although that's dead wrong.
But listen,
This is all-inclusive,
For all humans,
Just for y'all amusement --
Music for the blue-collared dudes
And all the collared students.
I'm Paul Wall in '05,
And I'm car pollution,
And I'm James Hart and hooping,
All meaning I'm a problem, Houston --
A constant nuisance.
I cause confusion.
Hold on,
This song's long as a constitution.

It's just I got a lot of thoughts that are hard to explain.
I'm trying to try a little tender,
But I'm hard in the brain.
Hard-headed thoughts darker than
Charred in the flame,
I'm talking black,
Pardon the slang.

But a flame is like Flocka:
Young man always gotta go hard in the paint.
We talk fell and offensive,
They call charging the game.
But even activists targeting Targets,
And chain stores can get chained to the same war,
Same arms taking aim.

Arm, leg, leg,
Arm, head,
We all the same:
One race feeling safe when we start in our lanes.
On our marks till that gun spark
Reminds us of young scars,
And makes us all start to run
And fall from the pain.

So we take off
And we hide and harbour the shame.
And as we grow older, damn,
It only gets harder to change.
It's getting heavy;
I don't wanna let my people down.
I'll fight the evil within till I'm beneath the ground,
Sleeping sound, that's my deepest vow.
Till I take my deepest bow, I'll keep preaching out
Through these speakers now.

Gary told my my album should be called
"Food Court,"
'Cause I only talk about food, justice, and hoop scores.
Put on my Jordans this morning without a shoehorn,
Played a couple of games and debated the use of brute force
As new forms of abuse to make us produce more
Over cold pizza and a lukewarm 2-4.
Poor gotta eat, so like first ball, we shoot for it.

I'm just trying to remember that life is too short;
Every second's precious -- let's stay up like due north
Of New York, where my homegirl's trying to quit
With the new courts,
And my dude's trying to keep the food portions down to two courses.
I'm trying to build with a lady,
And maybe move towards
Forming a team --
That's my last reference to sports.
I promise, I'm through.
These women are getting too bored.
Calling this dude court.

Hold on.
Just keep it going.

The last time I was rocking this,
I was rocking a diamond tee,
Rhyming like raucous,
With signing my dream
Of rocking that diamond Rockafella
Before the rock was presiding
Over the Oval Office
To go to a rock,
I was climbing that.

I still love it
Out in front of the public,
Juggling subjects and cutlets.
It's funny,
My stomach plummets
Right before every time,
Then I'm fine once some drums hit.
Drumsticks in buckets backstage
With Subway sub-wiches.
Man, I'm lucky as what.
This is what I do for the duckets;
No soul-sucking for pay stubs.
I'm nobody's puppet.
Now I'm buzzing
'Cause this stuff is in my blood like
An IV, but just 'cause I love it,
It's not my ID.
I mean, I'm rapping these rhyme schemes
And I rap to define me, but
Rap doesn't define me.

Trust that I'll be fine when the shine leaves.
Dudes used to say, "Would you rhyme, please?"
They had to push me to start like they couldn't find keys.
Now I'm regarded the most rewinded Rwandese,
London-born, but not that one renowned for the grime scene.

I'm sending this one to my fam and my old friends,
And fans who follow all the tweets that I don't send,
My man G is on the net; no goaltend.
My Plan B: I just left 'cause that goes in.
I'm into thirty for thirty docks and 30 Rock.
Why? 'Cause I'm thirty and I'm kind of a nerdy jock.
I remember before Jigga made 30 Hot,
And I still front on Justin a little 'cause of that 30 Pop.
I had CeeLo back on cassette when he used to rap,
Sitting up in my room with that Moesha track.
That was back when North America made cars,
Now inner cities just look like outer space:
We only make stars.

I remember we didn't care when we ate carbs.
I remember dreaming of that day when we would take charge.
I'm seeing the seeds of future change right now in the present,
As we're working our fields now, grounding the message,
And real life lessons,
Getting right down to the essence,
And we water that like a fountain,
And we're counting our blessings,
Sharing the hopes of our hearts,
And the doubts and the questions.
See the seeds sprout into trees that leave
Thousands of fresh ones.

Haven't got there yet,
But I found some directions.
I'm not a Catholic,
But these tracks is the sound of confession.
It's like I said: I'm in Heaven,
Sent down a postcard over a large ocean of doubt,
Via coast guardian angel, just saying we're okay,
We've all broke hearts, broke parts,
Fought and hurt,
Drank and smoked darts.
We're all victims;
We're all innocent of charge.
You're free to be who you are,
Now go and don't harm
The world is so starved for you
Being unique,
As cliche, but it often is with the truth, see,
It's nothing too deep,
And it's nothing new,
We all knew it as youth,
Seems we just forgot as soon as we grew a few feet.

That's why I like to say, "Remember to remember,"
That's why I like to play my fingers on that Fender.
That's why I write and play:
To try to find the light of day
In these dark winter nights and bravely bring it to the centre.
Still, some say it's hood nonsense;
No good conscience.
They got it twisted --
It's hood conscience
And good nonsense,
But check the comments.
Some supporters got enough.
Hey, my fans don't post, "I love Shad,"
They just say, "Drake."

I've got no problems with Drizzy, of course,
And I'm not vexed I can't cop with Drizzy or fours,
I'm all good -- I even got to give to the poor.
And T.O. knows I'm like a Benz in the city of Ford's.
Rob, I'm thinking they're bored with the backpacking,
Like, "Is he done yet?"
They're waiting on that hit like Phil Collins with the drum set --
In the air of the night, I'm heavy as two tons heads
Sleeping on a kid;
I'm breaking down their bunk beds,
And raising hell like Rev. Run said,
"Watch him stalk his prey and walk this way,
Slow as the undead."
I keep it one-hundred till sunset,
Till there's not one breath in my lungs left --
The undisputed number-one-esque.

Nah, this is a new act called "Sinner and Saint,"
Where the singer covers inner pain with glitter and paint,
And delivers his statements with wit, and with vigor and haste.
They say the entertainer's like Cedric,
Except thinner and great.
I'm playing;
I'm not a comedy king.
Obviously, rap fathered me sort of like pop's rap
On Common's
Be my policies:
Quality over quantity,
Real...
Ah...
Heh...
Almost had it!

My policy's quality over quantity,
Real girls over drama queens,
Real world over college dean philosophy,
Honesty over shock,
Real thoughts over knocking beats,
Real talk over when I drop the beat.


Lyrics submitted by CAKunited

Epilogue: Long Jawn song meanings
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