Game

(Tupac-style vocal tone & delivery)

(Music Type: 90s West Coast G-Funk / Reflective Street Soul / BPM 86)

(Voice Scale: Baritone A2–E4)

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(Yeah… they said I couldn’t sell dreams…

So I sold illusions in dime bags.)

(Every hustle start with a lie — end with a legend.)

Back when my stomach spoke louder than God,

Sellin’ soap dreams, bubbles full of facade.

Orajel dripped like truth with a mask on it,

Had the block numb — I was cuttin’ hope with plastic on it.

Told fiends, “Taste faith, not flavor,”

If they caught the bluff, I flipped it — called it labor.

Lies in rotation, innovation in the drought,

Turned a placebo hustle to a paper route.

Hundred off a Tylenol — pure ambition,

Learned that profit never asked for permission.

Nike box vault, blessings in my denim,

Every bill baptized before I spent ‘em.

Epsom salt alchemy, meth made of mimic,

Chemistry’s sin, economics’ cynic.

Fake highs, real stakes, product of a plan,

Sold ‘em what they wanted ‘til I became that man.

Soap money — clean dirt, it’s poetic, ain’t it?

Rinse guilt off sin, make the hustle sacred.

Back when broke was my religion, faith was the profit,

Burnt every bridge just to light my pocket.

Linked up with a clown from the K, he saw a mirror,

Said, “Kid, your hustle got a devil’s engineer.”

Crackheads choir singin’, “Pay me, save me,”

I was part pastor, part plague, half crazy.

Cut my hair, cut my ties, same barbershop,

Fade so clean, I erased who I was on top.

Pocket lookin’ pregnant, but I wasn’t givin’ birth,

That knot was the umbilical cord to my worth.

Told myself I’m self-made — divine and defiant,

Didn’t split the pie, I was part crust, part tyrant.

Mom dukes hit my stash, irony in smoke,

She turned my re-up to her secondhand hope.

Said I got robbed, truth sat in the hamper,

Dope in my sock like guilt in a camper.

Washed sins, spun lies — that’s the cycle I ran,

Made detergent outta dirt, that’s supply and demand.

Plug tried to bless me, I repaid with theft,

Said, “You only real when there’s no real left.”

Ran off twice — I was karma’s intern,

Quick flips make slow burns.

Soap money — clean dirt, it’s poetic, ain’t it?

Rinse guilt off sin, make the hustle sacred.

Back when broke was my religion, faith was the profit,

Burnt every bridge just to light my pocket.

Now I’m rich in the art of manipulation,

Used to sell hope — now I sell inspiration.

Still the same product, just the price went up,

From the trap to the booth — that’s divine mark-up.