Mister mister, who do you think you are? with your shiney gold chain, fat rolex, and the big BMW emblem on your car? You think you some kind of superstar? I'm supposed to drop my drawers, and call you big daddy? Mister mister, you've been misinformed, looks like prison did nothing, to reform, your ambitions, -- and my superstitions, tell me to keep away, from your sorry ass, because your "illegal" duckets, can't buy you class. SO keep on sellin' out, for that two cent gold, layin' brothers out, and treatin' sistas cold, you'll get your due, when you ass is wrinkled and old. Mister mister, you think I can be bought and sold? Mister mister, watch the clock, time is ticking, for the souls of the little boys, that you bought, off the block, Mister mister, you can't buy love, with your little cash, offer me all the duckets in the world, and I still don't want your sorry ass.
Reason for writing:
Dedicated to the street pharmacists who think they can buy women with material possessions. I see a lot of them, and most of the time they are with ambitious dewey eyed teenage girls.
Birth sign: Libra
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