I wake up with the voice in my head that says God's watching,
Studied scriptures and even skimmed thru Allah's doctrine,
Minutes later I'm thinking of killing haters, and ways to bring in some paper so having faith is a hard option,
My moms told me that praying will get me far in life,
And anytime it gets hectic just give ya heart to Christ,
But I don't know if the Lord can help my bars get tight
Or make the fans think I'm a star that's nice, I'm an artist writing
Real shit, real feelings, angels in my ear
Like, "Do better, be better, pick a new career,
Maybe teacher, preacher, counselor, physicist, engineer,
Someone doing things with meaning for people,"
But then I hear
These demons with the horns like, "Rap, rhyme, spit it,
Do a song wit a dance, talk about the slutty bitches,
Put half naked chicks in the video, pour liquor
on they asses,
Throw some stacks at the camera and yell, ‘nigga, nigga, nigga,
I'm ill, I'm getting it, fuck school,'
sell drugs, get a buzz, rock some shiny fake jewels,"
But the angels come back screaming, "Make smart cool!
Put depth in ya music, reach the youngest, dumbest fools,
While you kill it over beats and they sleeping,
You break the rules
and have ‘em thinking while they smoking and drinking and gripping tools,"
…And I choose the darkside, sorta like Tre and Doughboy in that car ride
And then I shout "Dough let me out!"
Knowing that this is wrong
I'm conflicted in my life and in my songs.
I got these Angels on my shoulder,
But these demons keep on talking and they're trying to win me over
Got me thinking bank robbery, Obama I need change,
I envision car jacking this old man in the Range,
Angels: "Work hard at your craft and deal with the pain,
Everyday ain't always sunny, you wanna just make it rain."
Demons: "Sha look at how long you been in the game,
Ain't nobody trying to hear what you yapping, you sound lame,
You ain't shooting, you ain't selling, you ain't balling you're the same,
Dude rapping 'bout your raps in your raps, then you complain."
But the angels start to whisper,
"Wife up a queen," then the demons tell me dis her,
The soldiers with the wings say lift brothers and sisters,
But the creatures with the tails say get money consistent,
Angels say, "God's son showed you the path,"
Demons say, "The savior was hated until he passed,
Sha you was born broke, parents called you accident,
Jesus got gold and a holiday named after him,"
Angels want me Christian or Catholic with wife and kids,
Demons want me flipping bricks, getting clapped, or doing a bid
Angels: "Forget the whores and the groupies, the music biz."
Demons: "Thinking small, you'll never be Pac or Big stupid."