“I’m a loc’d out gangsta set trippin’ banger and my homies is down so don’t arouse my anger, fool.”
Denver’s Governor’s Park was a gangster’s paradise this morning. The hoodrats bounced early from their baby mama’s cribs and rolled up on chromed-out 24s to the meeting spot. The crew shook their bones warm by flipping cards and taking names. The Alpine kicked out humongous beats, while amplified samples crushed the neighborhood loud, son. The homies were all packing heat after we cashed in the cards, so we hustled up the iced-out hill, ain’t none of us be tripping, fool.
Our home boy, Rishabh, is still MIA from the 5280 squad. The 411 on the street is that he might have been pinched by the coppers for pushing bent rollys. His mama ain’t gonna hear that he’s cleaning sheets in the big house again.
Our shylocks have been stacking dubs in the charity bank: Some fools be running in their skivvies tomorrow. Hot damn, these cake-eaters better be ready to bounce with the shebas on the block.
Let’s blow this joint.