i remember high school suburbs
young weed lovers
n when the bell rang
it was time-to sell things
snackin on some funyuns
backpack packed full ah onions
bout to hit the streets for the fiends
kief piled up no leaf in my green
in the seat laid back, way back while i play tracks
loud with the bass blast way-past legal
and it shook my little two door escort--feeble
but i didn't give a fuck
my music i choose it 'n' i knew
there'd be a day i couldn't do it like i do it
i said screw it imma cruise-wit-all the windows down
spin those heads, tryin to pin those sounds
serve them heads with the headies always ready
like "i bet he got the chronic hit his cell hes always on it"
and i was, steady with the heaviest of budz
(and) i learned to hate the fuzz, just like everybody does
i miss em, i could never forget em the whole crew
rest in peace Pat Dease, and indeed Ben Lu(cas)
i'm spittin this for you, straight livin this for you
and ill never take for granted all the shit that imma do
with my music- promise you'd be proud of how i choose and how i use it
destiny's not dreamin, dont confuse it
lose it, let-go, "spit ta fucking techno?"
"prove you got the moves and a swagger you didn't choose
in a magazine, somethin new that they haven't seen's all i gotta do."
and imma do it nothin to it man i knew it from the start
and imma call it work until they tell me that it's art-so tell me that it's art