Dear Family (Part 4)

Fam,
     I've been getting some incredible letters from Incandesio, with lots of great questions, and many powerful comments that you guys been posting. Right now, I'm up to my head in preparing the promotional plan for The S.O.N., the artwork, the CD insert info, the last minute changes on the album, and all kinds of stuff that concerns The S.O.N. But I just wanted to drop you guys a quick Cold 40. I dedicate it to the little homie who, unfortunately, was taking up for the fraud shit Filero said.

     In fact, I dedicate this to every hater on the planet. Like T.I. said, "Stay on your job." It's nothing but love on this side, even when I gotta dress you boys up a bit. I hope one day you'll realize that I would never lie on a man, never call someone a liar unless I know he's lying. Everything I said on my response to Filero's interview, was the simple truth. One of Filero's homies, or groupies, or dicksuckers got mad about my response, but what can I tell you, little brother? You're on the wrong side. Now, it's time for the best in the world to dress you up. Consider it an honor.

Another Cold 40

"Houston is torn"

You talk like a killa but I heard it before

get that broom and a mop, bitch, murda the floor,

jumpin on the net like you really about shit

but work fryin fish in a Gilligan's outfit

Slap you on da ass like you work at The Ritz

Have you walkin round the house dry sperm on ya lips

What kind of person is this, with no respect for ya team?

He da boy S.P., he da Mexican King!

if you step in the ring, let'cha plans be abandoned

just act like you here to sing the National Anthem

cause even if you look like you think that you ready

you gettin fucked like you in the backseat of my Chevy

goofy-ass punk, tell the label you rep

they can suck my right nut while they cradle the left

in the Webster's Dictionary under "broke-ass bustaz"

there's a picture of ya crew buyin no-brand mustard

but hold up, fellas, not to question ya hustle

cause ya'll mothafuckas representin the struggle

been 20-plus years that ya songs don't sell

got-damn, son, they hiring at Taco Bell!

nigga put it on my life that the Dope House lives

yellin "Fuck the radio!" this ain't Mo-town bitch

I neva asked to be the greatest, nigga, look what it costed

got pain like a man who wrote a book'n'then lost it

my babies growin up behind a scratched up window

so haters gotta pay me either cash or a dick blow

damn, it's sick bro, the dopest alive

on dat August twenty-first real hope has arrived

you'll hear it on each song, high at my street prom

nigga so hot I hold my dick widda meat tong

weed in my weed bong, deep in a deep thought

I wreck niggaz now dem hoes callin me 3-Pac

mix it with Frank White and gimme till daylight

wishin I could hear Screw keepin the pace right

yeah, but it ain't like, a genie is real

cause I had a 3rd wish still my people was killed

see the evil's instilled in every human that's born

like North against South, even Houston is torn

but if I mention God niggaz switchin the station

well, fuck it then, I'mma save the crickets from Satan.....

lol!                  
Ya'll don't feel me, man.
Los