Rap is ill. It’s been the soundtrack to my journey from boy to man. As an adult my metabolism has slowed down, my face has gotten fuller and I got a beer gut creepin’ on the come up. Lookin at Noreaga I realize that shit is mad real. Popeye’s fried chicken is the devil. Newports is poison like white Jesus– even if they’re iced out and on a chain. It’s time to get back up on my calisthenics and cardio. Look for me doing my ghetto workout in a jungle gym near you soon [nohomo, if applicable].
Nore, I hope you don’t have high-blood pressure or diabetes and that you ain’t pork’d out (’cause that’s ungod-like). Peace to the Gods. Free Tragedy.