Ronnie Drake (Rashad Isaiah)

So don't call me a nigga, unless you call me "my nigga" I'm a king, O.E. be slipping, falling from my chalice Don't mind the bumpers that be missing from my carriage It's poorly tinted, but my women not embarrassed I came to bury you average, you feel slighted It's like she know that I got it, it feel like it I real life it, I spill vices You will like it, I promise it's trill vibing, I'm honest Nigga ain't no getting money on that conscious shit I'mma just load my gat on some survival shit And when I hear they got a drought on it I take a month out of rap and I hustle 'til I'm out of it I got that coke flow, that heat rock I got that old school, huddle 'til the beat box Baby, I'm just digging in your gushy for the sweet spot I'mma beat that, 'til that mothafuckin' beat drop I got love for my niggas, my killers My dealers, my trickers, my bros I got love for my sisters, my women My bitches, my strippers, my hoes Hope they don't kill you cause you black today They only feel you when you pass away The eulogy be so moving, we live the scenes of those movies Conflicts in school or dope moving, it's so youthful But if you die today, I hope you find some relief In what a great escape, we still dodging from polices When we make a plate, they be lying, searching in my bucket With the straightest face, it could be eighty eight Sometimes I wonder why we killers, why they killing us I think we only wear a grill because they grilling us Or how they feeling us, gotta look real and tough Gotta keep your hands in the cart, know you stealing stuff Came a long way from a boat and an auction Now we got names and a vote, then a coffin Ain't shit change but the coast we adopted Little black children you can call me that nigga, nigga