BY Sour Indyka (@)
What do you mean where am I from?
Meanwhile back at the ranch, there was more smoke on the ave than the California wild fires.
Burning in more ways than one…
Good things come in small packages, come taste that flavor, this ain’t butter this is parkay.
There was a difference, those bottles of, fire.
Oh me oh my, it was beautiful.
It’s Mary Jane’s roses encased in glass.
It HAD to be quality over quantity Aroma Therapy.
The Heights, the birthplace of the flavor.
Winters in the smoke shops and in the buildings on the fourth.
Do you talk to the Indian?
Let’s travel, and crystallize dreams, captivated you with the hustle…the ave, when it all looked liked a Spanglish Spike Lee flick.
You had no choice but to see the world thru our eyes.
You had no choice but to smile when there wasn’t anything worth smiling for.
Was it the trips?
But then again, I was always trippin, sending smoke signals to the Indians, so I stayed traveling.
Which trip? Oh that trip.
When did you fall in love?
Behind the smoke shop counter, hey baby got that Hayes that will make your hair grow.
Contribute to my paycheck. Why don’t cha!
Maintained ghetto policy.
No hustling on my corner, straight up.
You are Goliath, please don’t get it twisted.
No matter how you put it…
You can’t take the heat get the fuck out that kitchen baby.
I think you fell in love.
She can make you look at life like a topic in a book…standing in the corner chilling on beach chairs on St Nick acting like we were the audience at some type of ghetto catwalk.
Hollywood stars we were, we are and always will be.
After all we are the stars of our own blockbuster indy movie.
Sancocho for the soul!