bun b & statik selektah – ain’t no tellin lyrics
[verse 1:bun b]
i seen a whole lot of sh+t in the streets in the last 50
had people smilin’ my face behind my back actin’ shifty
seen lifelong friendships quickly turn into enemies
so even inside the good there’s bad memories
now i survived the worst attempts that people had for me
but i ain’t cry about it like i’m just a sad story
i know a lot of folks had it worse than i did
and they ain’t complain about it how the f+ck can i? sh+t
i’ma put my problems back in my duffel
man, i’m just grindin’ and hustlin’ i ain’t lookin’ for trouble goddammit, i got enough of my own i’m just tryin’ to spit a couple of poems
pick up some bread and gone back home
i’m tryin’ to stay up outta the f+ckery
and i ain’t finna f+ck with you as long as you don’t f+ck with me ’cause if you came from where we came and saw what we saw you know how hard it is to find your balance like a seesaw
[verse 2:38 spesh]
it’s more important things we should cherish
f+ck money, that piece of paper mean nothin’ like an illegal marriage
everything i speak coherent my vocab deep like the elites
well, please pardon my street appearance
you ain’t know i was a single parent
my kids depend on me to stay away from evil spirits
i made a promise not to bring up narrative
but i’m a wolf that don’t care about war
my n+gga, i don’t hunt, she the sheriff huh
i’d rather eat than wear it
since i spend money on jewels at least get some decent carrots
y ‘all financially embarrassed even when i ain’t have a reader
with my last that’s being fearless
when y ‘all was out here being careless
i won’t say thanks mistakes y ‘all made gave me awareness
don’t even compare it you watchin’ season four of your favorite show
i’m eatin’ out of four seasons in paris
[verse 3:grafh]
trips i give it up for my loved ones tell the ops we up on
tell the cops suck one a real woman know a real n+gga once you touch one
i took a brick and i turned it in then my kids trust fund
dolo with no plus one back on ’em
i don’t care who strapped i seen n+ggas get clapped with a strap on ’em
every pan that my mama put back up a crack on ’em
and whoever sent the witchcraft went back on ’em
it’s whiplash yet i still smash the back block with it
fake ass n+gga the gangster got ass shots in it
my stash box got a black mop in it
the stash glocks the head shots half the size of a padlock in it your stash box got a laptop in it we smash on ’em
me and bun b mash on ’em trash rappers we scooby snack on ’em in new york when rappers get their jewelry sn+tched
we the dudes that get their jewelry backfired on ’em
he strapped with the b00by trap on ’em
and the gun smoke make it look like the uzi’s transforming
yet i gave a gucci bag to a groupie last morning
god told me cool and i used my last warning
man, pray for me
[outro:haile supreme]
we seen a lot of things you can’t televise
leave that bullsh+t at home tonight
throw that weakness to the fire
ain’t no tellin’ when the temperature’s right
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