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letra de pope mobile breaks - charles hamilton

it’s not hard to love women, it’s hard to love me. hard to guard me and hard to judge me. they’re my audience lately, no ll. or james smith, more like nai-smith. or nais-mith. sh-t, i exit from knowing the name ’cause i want to spit the best sh-t. top baller, top moorer, top bawler or tears, and i’m a scorer, weird. cause i’m not used to the sport, not abusing women to do what i do anymore. not really abusing then, all i know is this game is used to abusing them. and i love them more then they can love themselves and i don’t love me. i might make themselves when i touch me ’cause they’re love to me. what’s ugly? look at me or look above me

i spit hard to get n-ggas off. pause. i mean get ’em off me because they’re trying to guard me. now i spit bars just to get women off. cause they the hard within a n-gga when they’re trying to guard me. so r-t-rdedly i got to be bigger then
their -ssumptions of what a n-gga with a trigger can do. so who’s bigger than dude with the trigger holder who’s
quick to abuse a n-gga until his fluid hits his shoes? such a metaphor is even heavier nowadays. so i let the door close, at least to my heart. and let it piece apart what i want to say before i run away. all the thoughts are now runaway slaves
from the brain, to the heart, to the soul, to the mouth. and it rolls out like a rolling carpet of red. hard-headed and i’m only hard in bed. and this is a music bed and i’m guarding it instead because a hard offensive member makes a hard office defender. i did this sh-t from behind my desk. in my mind, insects. i don’t guess

adages makes my rapping average. you can sum it up in a phrase grandma would say back in the stuck days, the up days when you was trying to figure out what’s up with… f-ck it, the subject stays. and i stay away from the subject because i’m not trying to get paid. like f-ck getting paid, throw all this love sh-t away. if i sat down to write this sh-t down, i’d be more depressed. i see more than stress coming up. the runner up. #1 is on some other stuff, and i don’t give a mother-f-ck. i’m the king of acid jazz. acid drips, acid laughs, that’s some sh-t, back to math, back to cl-ss, back to making cl-ssics. black cl-ssics are now jamaican cl-ssics. roll up and get p-ssed, because they completely missed it from a distance. what’s the point? you love the point, cause you grew up with the point. and you love the point like mark price, like steve nash. there’s an ‘s’ in the way, even ask. even basketball cl-sses need to p-ss

- charles hamilton

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