Kashmire - The Man Under The Sun lyrics

[Intro] [Verse 1] Listen, this man is 20 years old Still livin at home, all he does is smokes and gets stoned His mother doesn't condone the lifestyle that he chose But he does it anyway, blowing lines up his nose Yet he's nice with the flows, its the only thing he's got Dropped out of high school but his brain didn't rot With the sk**s the mans got, he deserves a shot But he'd rather blow his money on some liquor or the pot See hes not, doing what he could or what he should Hes gotta step in the booth and prove that he is good I seen it, he treats the studio as if its wood Lighting up the mic leaving a flame trail where he stood He spits fire, all he wants to do is get higher He stopped going to the studio, money was required Its a shame, downers and alcohol was desired Just from getting heart broken from a hoe that he admired, Damn [Hook] [Verse 2] Sometimes i wonder if he even wants to do it Starts a mix tape and half way he says screw it I tried to tell him, look son you gotta go pursue it Your sk**s is like your penis i mean it you gotta use it You know what i'm saying? make em know where you staying Your from the burbs of Jerz and everybody get murked When you get on the microphone, put em in the dirt He nodded his head and said aloud "lets go to work" So i, got him to the studio its time to run your mouth Get in the booth burn it up go head send it south Bring it to hell, have AC/DC ringing them bells He stopped mid verse came out saying "i'm feeling compelled" Dead silence, i asked the man what about? He looked at everybody shook their hands and said "i'm out" I think its time i confront the dude, tell him to stop it There's no way that he can survive with empty pockets [Hook] [Verse 3] Yeah, he don't know what i got in store Went to his crib cause my phone calls he ignored Walked up the steps to the porch, opened the door Four bottles, dutch guts, and cut straws surround the floor Whats this for? i grabbed him by his collar Threw up against the wall then i started to holla You stupid f** get on your grind, people will folla Your not a scholar your a drop out, you wanna make a dolla? Sit and write these rhymes, sit and fight these times You got a talent to be heard son your not a mime "But i'm white" he said, mother f**er that's fine I don't care if your red, blue, or the color of a lime You spit tight, do you really want this fist fight? Over me trying to help you out so you can live right There's no one this type, you gotta go and get your sh** right So sit write, and slice up these beats no need for Swiss knifes Come on [Outro]