by Sugar Tongue Slim
Shooting at the stars almost hit mars!
Tagged the sun on his side tryna get at The Lawd
Give me 2, 3,or 12 and I’m gonna see Hell
7 or 11 I might just reach heaven
Now I could work a 9 to 5
Or a 4 to 10.
But then I’m betting straight money, door blowem for the win.
Corn liquor sipper blue knickers with a down south crease,
Slick like chicken grease.
Burn you when I’m hot baby, put down.
Cee-lo’s my game but craps I slang though, ivory dice slung at a angle, stooped hein catcher
stance like anybody get my pockets stealing home.
Two shakes and blow, baby need milk and pampers let’s go!
6 off the first lick, a nick and ace. Bring it back doubles the hard way,
Fader playing hater say 2 slats even with 2 angels on your back you can’t bring that back.
Over hand toss give the dice some slack, hit the bricks like click clack, deuce tre’s how you love
That was my right hand, cold hand, switch to southpaw stance, left hand golden, shake twice
before throwing. The ritual to get richer dirk diggler dice pitcher 7 when I’m soft but 11 when I’m on. Bet 20 for I throw’em.
He said homes I don’t bet less than 50.
Quickly accepted this nigga don’t know my hustle game like cellophane I see through all the
Knowing the circumstance it’s the romance that gets me back at it, even when I stink like crap at
it, I shoot till I’m shitless, a craps addict.
Spazmatic for money quick grab at it, gotta have it like my nic bag habit.
9 out of 10 average cut the talk let me get back at it.
As savage on the toss between the legs ass backwards, showing off as if it matters.
Then he scream out snake eyes you cocky bastard, vanity is a sin
I say ‘ naw it can’t be if God made men to worship him’
Threwem for a loop when I went religious on but with my performance at stake he kicked the
bucket said fuckit ‘Bet Shit’
Like I’m suppose to gasp and pass, I survive off principle and probability, hand to hand hustling
math, break his ass for the bank.
Is Thant dank I smell?
2 pulls and I’m cool. Too much and I relapse to the revolution cock the tool and cut the fool for 40
acres and mule.
They say you still on that shit.
Hustling ass activist, money aint shirt but a pacifist, do the numbers don’t act as if.
Niggas been slanging craps at the bottom, with crabs at the bottom from Jackie Onassis to
He said mannnn Shoot the dice
I said hold on I gotem.
Huh, break a cat for more scratch than most cats who work eight hours.
Dice in left hand right hand to pop my collar, Next Day Next Dollar and all the hustlers holler.
Don Carlos Price, who also uses the moniker STS, is a Poet, MC, and songwriter and has ghostwritten for platinum artists and performed and recorded with The Roots and many more. Featured on Def Poetry Jam, he’s graced many stages from Philadelphia to Paris. Stsisgold.com
Art: Dice Roll, 2010 by fitzsean