He was a city slicker with money to burn, chics on his hips and criticized for his lips. Rhymin and flowin, intertwined with the beat, bringing that Dwayne Wade, Shaq and Zo heat. Chics givin brain, in the rain, going insane, straight stans, anything for a chance, to get a whiff of his b boy stance.
Ahhh, then you have soft and demur, thick as a board, born to be a star, groomed to go far, raising the bar, chics hating, father slaving-or not, out of 3 they all want her spot. Camera shy, unless Sasha's in the room, too good to be true-most think-her shit don't stink, paparrazi in the face, everywhere, everyplace, always showing the down home grace.
BBoy stance, mesmerized at a glance, taken back by the way her family grandstand. Maybe not feelin the dad, but damn, there's a dad, not having to go to a throwback line of "damn that's your dad". Down Home Grace, seeing past the face, past the bitches and broads, the inner shawn, the man behind the man that only the man put on-oh motherfuckers it's on.
So fuck the public that don't believe, the haters, the sucka mothafuckas that dont agree, the jealous bitches that want the money, the lame ass niggas that want her honey, even the people in your camp, they can get funny, dummies, chummy, not so much, just use to the money. Why share your shit, so nay sayers can split, spit, dismiss a true dynasty, on some "Royal, black in america shit". Make it last forever, and ever, sweat says, green says "wrapped around your arms baby, dont you know", don't you know what happens when the bboy stance meets the down home grace? Damn, niggas loose their mind in the place, everyone, anyone want a taste-Fuck 'em and tell them to their face-let their asses know that privacy keeps it safe, not even a trace, why the fuck y'all got to keep up the pace, let em up in your place, true hollywood stories and shit, just to later disgrace, turn on you like a snitch in a case, ready for your shit to fall apart like Mase, no, no, not the BBoy Stance meets Down Home Grace.