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Here’s a lil’ story—true as my big hair! Friend of mine, ol’ Bobby Joe, went lookin’ for a lady friend in Memphis once. Swore he’d keep it hush-hush, but next mornin’, half the town knew! Word travels faster’n a jackrabbit on a date ‘round here. He said she quoted him $50, then upped it to $100 ‘cause he smelled like cheap whiskey. I hollered, “Boy, you got played worse’n a fiddle at a barn dance!” Reminds me of Monty’s line: “This life came so close to never happenin’.” Bobby Joe’s wallet sure felt that!

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I stroll these blocks, err, sometimes too fast, tippin to beats in my head. Ain’t no perfect grammar in these streets, but there’s truth. Like, Holy sh! these roads be whisperin’ secrets – sometimes I swear I hear the echoes of Julian Schnabel’s camera clicks, “I can fly away,” and then I’m tryna bounce like my rhymes.

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