I got a folder called “Charlie” in my Yahoo.com email
where I save his gnarly Photoshops and songs for me to retell,
and it was in that thing I noticed my bro is a fiend for detail
‘cause he used that Saucy Millionaire every time that he’d spell
that G double O- D- I- E and whatever album title.
And though it took me a while to see it consistency is vital.
Even if it’s just a font it spells my history compiled,
and that brings to mind the thought of the future and why I’m writin’.

What I’m dreamin’, can I see it? Could it ever really happen?
It seems so unlikely I don’t let myself get dragged in,
but I wanna be different. Man, fuck business. Fuck a tie and jacket.
it’s so unrealistic to make bank by strummin’ and a-rappin’.
It’s my passion, but it’s so uncertain. What will be my fate?
I feel like I’m just a has-been though I've never tasted fame.
When I look at Tyler and at Mac… Man, we’re pretty much the same age,
but I've only done a single show. I gotta get back on stage.

I’m a saucy millionaire without a penny anywhere
and I’m not sure if many care about my music’s silly flair.
Fuck! What do I do?
Man, what the hell am I tryna pursue?
I wish I knew.
But I've got some appreciation and internal motivation.
Add representation to the equation and I got a chance to make it.
‘Til then it’s a hobby for a fool.
And though I’m dedicated to creatively creatin’…
(Just be patient)
I guess I’d better stay in school.

And while I hate to go and ask myself these big ass fucking questions,
and although this shit’s for me, as it’s my enrichment and reflection,
I think it might be worth it to just step back for a second
and inspect shit while I’m workin’ on “coolio slick,” my third collection.
‘Cause if I made it I don’t really know what that means.
Is it just a life of touring, fuckin’ bitches, smokin’ mad G’s?
Would I love it? Would it get boring? Would I feel alone with me
and hate my songs, lose my friends, and sell out hard to MTV?

Fuck that shit. At this point it don’t even matter.
Especially if I quit and give up dreams of bein’ a Rapper
Music Master. I’ll admit I don’t know if that’s what I’m after
so for now I’ll make some music, keep my grades up, and combat the
consciousness I have inside of the inevitable approach
of adulthood mediocrity, be my kid’s soccer coach.
See how they block the goal as I sit on the bench full of reproach
for myself, what I've become, on my back wigglin’ like a roach.

Hook