They share your loneliness and time,
They hit yo page while they suck down a tequila and lime.
Cept players dont hit yo page,
Cause all they hos would get into a rage.

Hit his page, blow up his cell, and send a thousand emails,
he controls his shit, shuts off his phone, always prevails
Its a job to him, a talent, a very hard earned skill,
jobs arent good enough, cant go work in no mill.

He deserves more, for his swag,
A mazoroti or maybe a silver and black jag.
To settle for less is like a skinny ass girl in a tight dress,
A waste...come on now my boi's got taste...

For the finer things in life
And never feel more than pressured and strife.
He paid his dues when he was that child selling some treats,
Now its his time to be on easy streets.

My heart cries for the inner small lonely child,
But he is ruled by a grown man gone wild.
Who gets his own from others who are caring,
And loves him and willing to be sharing...