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letra de dey bishop - gauze & bandages - nick buglione (dey bishop)

like a broke kid attending college cl-sses/
i give top rhyming to the minds of the m-sses/
got the mind of pac in the lobby, with gandhi’s guidance to guide me
my drive for rhyming got me wildin, bodying cl-ssics/
silence, i’m not fine with you making music, this is me, son/
our goals are different, you’re tryna film a movie with groupies inside a jacuzzi, rock gucci on a weed run/
i’m tryna get dollars, divide the booty like a threesome/
me and my people tryna eat, son/
believe him, i’m from where a kid’ll stick you quick for loose change/
don’t matter your son is watching, they run up, a gun is c-cking, to run your pockets just a bit quicker than usain/
your mother strickened with new pain/
dutch stickers ripped, your brothers fill a swisher with new strains but today/
i’m tryna tell you, you can make it with your p-ssion/
better than blazing haze, no escaping from the trapping/
never thought that hip hop would take it this far
but now i’m gracing stages from nj to playing down in dallas/
and nothing’s handed, this is real work/
crafting songs you only make if you feel hurt/
i mean real hurt, hurting for a meal hurt/
see your aunt at your dad’s wake high on pills hurt/
couple of dutches like f-ck it, get drunker than double the skunks, just so i don’t feel hurt/
wake up, wonder the f-ck is up, cut it, numbing is dumb and even after the numbing you will still hurt/
you can feel this is real hurt/
and money can’t fix the scars and damages/
that my upbringing brought, music’s my gauze and bandages/
i’m tryna give you more than all that lavish sh-t/
more than cars parking, acting barbaric at bars, star status sh-t/
never that/
that ain’t real anybody who say different is too p-ssy like a pair of cats/
sucker, let us act/
cause all we got is each other, my brother, please, be aware of that/
city blocks got the drama lit/
mommas sit as the drama’s popping, whether you buy prada or your pockets gotta lotta lint/
violent sh-t, sirens surround the town, everybody quiet or out of it/
flies flying out wallets, problems like wallace big/
do these kids got llamas? does mcdonald got condiments?/
while writer’s got writers block, my cuz right on a rider’s block, and riding, sick/
prolly popping a glock to a copper, then get locked in rikers and be proud of it/
wonder how my loud is lit/

stressed with suicidal thoughts/
prolly kill myself ‘fore i own suicidal doors/
but, y’all bloodsuckers need to cut with the act/
puff a blunt of something, touch me and you f-cking with crack/
never busting a gat/
think marty mcfly shoes, cause i, kick it tight without touching a strap/
no one as sick as he/
diss he pick up his trigger speed/
clicking quicker than wiz is fixing indiga hitting trees/

casted out, puffing loud at parks/
i was an outkast with a sound to spark/
before i was a big boy around clowns and narcs/
where they ski mask for 3 stacks, the town is dark/
and poverty stricken/
where the devil’s possibly hidden/
you better peddle cause debt ain’t settled with lottery tickets/
though momma be getting, every scratch-off she can grab/
with the hopes of cash, dog, to blast off from the past/
but that’s life is a tethered region/
my momma pocket and wallet had better seasons/
so i’ll get her that cheddar whether the weather’s freezing i’m in leather padded with pleather in a set of sweaters sneezing/
shaking, making sp-ce jams/
i’m jordan at the half court, no, i’m leo with a p-ssport, catch me if you can/

- nick buglione dey bishop

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